Within A Forest Dark
by elizasky
Summary: Gilbert Blythe couldn't live without Anne Shirley. But what if he had to? This AU asks what Gilbert would do if he lost Anne forever before they were married. Part I: "Within a Forest Dark" and Part II: "The Sun and the Other Stars." Content Warning: death, grief, anxiety
1. Chapter 1: The End

**Author's Note:**

 **I was moved to write this story after reading Catiegirl's "When Tomorrow Comes." If fan fiction is a way of showing love for a book, I hope that this story will show love for all its sources. Thank you to Catiegirl for writing so many lovely chapters that have given me hours of pleasure and escape (and for corresponding with me re: this story). My own story is an alternate universe, diverging from "When Tomorrow Comes" near the end of chapter 36, after the sentence, "It almost sounded as if she had murmured his name."**

 **Instead of waking up in the morning, Anne doesn't.**

 **Quotations from "When Tomorrow Comes" and from canon presented in italics (also some internal thoughts — hopefully clear in context). All credit to L.M. Montgomery for her much beloved characters, and to Catiegirl for this continuity (and for Cora Blythe).**

 **Content warning for Death, Grief, Depression.**

* * *

Chapter 1: The End

* * *

Cora Blythe stepped into the dim room, smiling a little sadly at the sight of her son huddled protectively next to Anne on the bed. She'd come in only a few hours ago and covered the sleeping pair up, her heart sinking at the stillness of the girl next to him. She'd hoped — she'd always hoped — and yet she's seen it too often before. She forced herself now to look at Anne's face in the morning light and an electric shock went through her

as she registered its slack serenity. How thin the line between life and death, and yet, how unmistakable the transformation.

Her hand flew to her mouth and she stayed there frozen, tears beginning to fall.

Marilla stood beside Cora and her breath caught, hearing the broken sounds . . . coming from the nurse . . . Marilla knelt beside Anne then, her own repressed tears beginning to fall as she pressed her hand against the cheek that was [dry] and rapidly cooling. "My little girl," she murmured, her hand trembling as she smoothed the red hair back from her forehead.

Cora knelt on the other side of the bed, wiping her eyes. With tremulous fingers, she reached a hand to Gilbert's cheek, stroking it gently to wake him.

"I'm sorry sweetheart, I must have fallen asleep," he mumbled in a husky voice . . . He sat up then, his hair tousled, and the little blanket that was covering them fell from the bed. He then looked to both Cora and Marilla, who were openly crying, and then finally at the girl beside him. An amazed look shot onto his face and he sprang up then, stumbling slightly as his feet his the floor.

"NO!"

Cora moved to catch him, but too slowly. Gilbert threw himself across the bed, gathering Anne's gaunt, lax body into his arms.

"NO!" he cried again.

Beyond the window of the little east gable room, treetops were silhouetted against the rosy gold of approaching dawn. The storm had washed the face of the earth, leaving field and forest refreshed. Drowsy robins twittered from their perches, bees woke to their never-ending labors, and the last drips of rain plinked from the branches onto the rooftops of Avonlea.

* * *

As the last of the predawn fog lifted, John Blythe and Davy Keith came around the corner of the Blythe house, carrying buckets of water from the pump. Out of the corner of his eye, John glimpsed movement at the bottom of the lane and squinted. In a moment, the figure resolved itself into the form of Rachel Lynde, but a Rachel Lynde such as no one had ever seen before. Her gray hair flew long and loose behind her; her brown wrapper, hastily tied, did not quite cover the bottom of her nightgown. Icy dread washed over John as he understood the meaning of her unprecedented state of undress.

"Davy. Go into the house," he said, his voice tight.

"Is that . . . Mrs. Lynde?"

"Davy . . ."

But Mrs. Lynde was at the gate already, gasping.

"Rachel? Is Anne . . ."

Mrs. Lynde only nodded, but there was no need to speak. Her ghastly face was eloquent enough.

John Blythe dropped his buckets, splashing water over his boots. He ignored Davy's tremulous question, striding forward with fierce speed.

"I'm going," he said, brushing past Mrs. Lynde as he began to run.

Three steps down the lane, he halted abruptly, turning back.

"How bad is he, Rachel?"

Still unable to speak, Mrs. Lynde only shook her head, mouth slack in horror.

"Catch your breath. I'll send Davy to get Fred Wright. Davy . . ."

But the boy was gone.

"I'll . . . go . . ." she puffed. "In . . . a . . . moment."

John left her to recover as best she might. He ran as he had not run for years, pushing through the burning in his lungs and the shooting pains in his ribs. When he reached Lover's Lane, he thought that he could not run another step. Then he heard it. Every hair on his body prickled at the sound of his son's anguished wail, drifting down over the smiling summer fields from Green Gables.

* * *

A short time later, Rachel Lynde staggered onto the porch of Lone Willow Farm, clutching the stitch in her side. Whatever breath she had recovered was lost in the whimper that escaped her lips. She had intended to knock, but managed only to lean against the doorjamb, letting her head hang down as she attempted to gain some composure. With a shuddering breath, she brought her hand against the door with a feeble slap.

It was enough. Fred Wright answered, haggard with the red-rimmed exhaustion of new parenthood. His torpor vanished as he read the news in Mrs. Lynde's face.

"Oh, no!" Fred's voice was louder than he had intended, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, as if to recapture the exclamation.

Mrs. Lynde nodded grimly as Fred helped her over the threshold.

"When?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a small sound from the door of the downstairs bedroom. It was Diana, pale in her nightgown, black hair streaming to her waist.

"Di! You shouldn't be out of bed, darling," said Fred, hurrying to her side.

Diana ignored him.

"Anne?" she implored Mrs. Lynde.

Mrs. Lynde had never needed encouragement to speak. But in that moment, she sent a little prayer to heaven, pleading for the strength to say the words.

"She . . . died. This morning."

All color drained from Diana's face. She swooned against the doorframe, sliding to the floor in a puff of cotton.

"Diana!"

Hurried footsteps on the stairs now — Mrs. Barry, who must have been asleep in the spare room.

"Diana! Fred! What's going on?"

"It's Anne, Mrs. Barry," Fred replied.

Shock registered on Mrs. Barry's kind face, but she had eyes only for her daughter.

"She shouldn't be out of bed! Fred, help me with her."

Between the two of them, Fred and Mrs. Barry lifted Diana into the bed where her son had been born the previous day. Baby Fred was squalling in the bassinet under the window, upset by the commotion. No one moved to comfort him.

"Diana! Diana!"

Fred patted his wife's cheeks, trying to revive her. Mrs. Barry dipped a cloth into the china basin of the washstand and dripped cool water over Diana's forehead. She seemed to rouse a little, but moaned and began to weep.

Fred reached out to comfort her.

"Fred," Mrs. Lynde interjected, "you're needed at Green Gables."

"I'm needed here, Mrs. Lynde!"

Mrs. Lynde wrung her hands. Of all the times for words to fail her . . .

"No, Fred . . . please."

At this, Fred Wright looked up sharply. He had known Rachel Lynde since he was in his own bassinet. Over the years, she had scolded him, upbraided him, ordered him, cajoled him, and instructed him. Never had she begged him.

"They may need . . . they may need a man's help. It's only Marilla there, and . . . and the Blythes."

Fred studied her ashen face, indecisive.

"Go, dear," said Mrs. Barry. "I'm here with Diana, and Mrs. Lynde can stay and help with the baby."

Fred looked uncertainly at his wife, but Mrs. Barry urged him on. Mrs. Lynde crossed the room to the bassinet, devoutly thankful to have a job that required neither speech nor the immediate prospect of returning to Green Gables. She settled Baby Fred into her arms, shushing wordlessly, tears spilling onto his blanket.

* * *

Once, during his years in Alberta, Gilbert had gone out exploring along a gully near the ranch. He followed it quite a way, until he came to a thick stone archway overlaid with railroad tracks. He had played there a while, tossing stones against the walls and trying a dozen different hoots and cheers, just to enjoy the echoes. All at once, the gravel beneath his feet began to clatter. Gilbert stood stock still as a long, heavy freight train rushed over the bridge, filling the cavern with a rumbling so thick and pressing that he felt almost as if he were underwater. All other sound was obliterated, save for the roaring in his ears.

* * *

At first, Cora and John had let him be, unwilling to part them. But when he had fallen silent and still showed no sign of relinquishing the thin, white form, they exchanged a desperate look. They stood, one to each side, and tried to coax him, calm him. Cora smoothed her hand over hunched shoulders; John spoke gently, as he might to a frightened horse. Even Fred tried, calling his name with tender concern. Nothing seemed to reach him.

Marilla stepped forward then, and stood before him. She leaned in, nearly touching her wrinkled forehead to his contorted brow. His eyes were dull, but they focused when Marilla spoke.

"You must let me have my turn now."

Marilla reached out work-worn hands. With a shudder, Gilbert placed the wispy figure into her arms.

In the next instant, he staggered back, pushing past the outstretched arms that sought to comfort him. He hurtled down the stairs, through the door, and into mocking brilliance of a gorgeous morning.


	2. Chapter 2: The Apple Tree

Content warning: grief, mild violence (w/ slight injury)

* * *

Chapter 2: The Apple Tree

* * *

Fred Wright jogged along the lane winding down from Green Gables, trying mightily to keep pace with Gilbert, but lagging several meters behind. Cora Blythe had begged him not to let Gilbert out of his sight, and Fred was doing his best to comply.

As they reached the Blythe house, Gilbert slowed. Fred sent up a wordless prayer of thanks, but was brought up short when Gilbert stepped past the house and into the yard beyond. There, by the woodpile, he pulled a heavy axe from the stump where Mr. Blythe had left it early that morning.

"Gilbert . . . maybe you should put that down," ventured Fred, dismayed to hear the quaver in his own voice.

Gilbert made no reply. He turned on his heel and started down through the orchard, cutting across rows in a straight line for the woods.

"Gilbert? Gil?" But all Fred could do was follow.

The ground was sodden after such a tremendous storm, with boggy places and rainfilled gullies even in the heart of the forest. Dripping trees gleamed in the strengthening light, dappling the ground with ever-shifting patterns of sun and shadow.

Gilbert's angry stride ate up the winding paths through the birch woods. He rebalanced the axe in his right hand, gripping until his knuckles were white. Somewhere behind him, Fred struggled to keep up.

 _She died_.

In the formless void of the the roaring, the words surfaced again and again.

 _She died. She died. She died_.

Beyond those words, there was no thought and no meaning. Gilbert walked because he was walking, breathed because he was breathing. He held an axe because it had presented itself to him and he had no power either to refuse it nor to employ it to any purpose but its own. Without the intrusion of intention or analysis, he existed utterly in the moment, enacting unintelligible demands with neither reflection nor hesitation.

In time, his feet carried him to a sweet, secluded valley ringed with maples. There, in a flower-strewn glade, he found the lone apple tree of summers past, grown now into an immense and rangy specimen unlike any prim and proper orchard tree.

Without preamble, Gilbert hefted his axe and brought it crashing down with all his strength. In an an incandescent rage, he swung it into the branches, again and again, laying waste to leaf, twig, and unripe fruit. _She died_. Boughs crashed down around him. Some grazed his face and arms, leaving long scratches that glowed red. _She died_. He hacked furiously, mercilessly, never pausing to allow himself a breath. _She died_. When the smaller branches were down, he began on the great limbs. These took several strokes to sever, and Gilbert was none too precise. The wood weakened and split, leaving long, naked gashes where it tore along its length. _She died. She died. She died_.

When every sprig was destroyed, and every branch riven, Gilbert stepped back from the shredded stump. The jagged spikes of splintered wood stood out sharp and raw against the wholesome beauty of the rolling valley. His bleeding hands stung, but the hurt barely registered.

 _She died._

Gilbert Blythe dropped to his knees. _Oh, the black years of emptiness stretching before him. He could not live through them. He could not._ There, in the ruins of the apple tree, _he wished, for the first time in his gay young life, that he could die, too._

He buried his face in his hands, and wept.

* * *

Mr. James A. Harrison had spent the afternoon hoeing amongst the cabbages. Though he had found a few too many fat, white worms for his liking, the vegetables were coming along well and he was satisfied. At teatime, he trudged back up toward the house, stopping by the barn to stow his tools and wash the mud from his boots. He tossed aside his hat and scratched around the edges of his bald head, ruffling the fringe of brown hair.

A soft sound, as of a wounded animal, fluttered down from the hayloft. Puzzled, Mr. Harrison mounted the ladder to investigate. He was surprised to find a boy curled up in the hay, his cheeks washed with tears, heaving weakly.

"Bless my soul. Davy?"

Davy did not reply. His face scrunched into a tight, red knot, and his cry gained a desperate energy.

"Davy, my boy, what has happened?" Mr. Harrison was well and truly alarmed. Had the boy taken ill as well? That thought brought another crashing on its heels.

"Davy? Is it Anne? Is she . . ."

Davy wailed in reply, still unable to speak.

Mr. Harrison tightened his grip on the ladder to keep from falling. That poor, poor girl. He had known, logically, that her situation was precarious, but, in his heart, he had never actually expected her to die.

With an effort, he spoke gently to the boy. "Come along Davy. Come to the house. We'll get you some tea and cake."

To Mr. Harrison's utter astonishment, Davy complied. He climbed meekly down the ladder, allowed himself to be steered along the walk to the house, and took the seat that was offered to him without complaint.

Mr. Harrison whispered a few words to Mrs. Harrison, who gasped and buried her face in a dishcloth. Then he knelt beside Davy's chair.

"Davy? Does anyone know that you are here?"

Davy shook his head.

"I think that the Blythes might be worried if they can't find you," he said, in a voice more tender than even he would have thought possible. "Now, you just stay right here. Mrs. Harrison is going to get your tea and I'm going over to tell the Blythes that you are safe. You can stay here as long as you like."

Davy merely nodded.

With a worried glance toward his wife, Mr. Harrison went to saddle the horse.

* * *

As the summer sun slipped down the sky, whispers crept through Avonlea. Mrs. Harmon Andrews heard from Mrs. H.B. Donnell, who was next-door-neighbor to Mr. Cotton, who had seen Mr. Harrison at the post office with his own two eyes and knew all there was to know. Once Mrs. Harmon knew, Mrs. Sloane knew, and once Mrs. Sloane knew, everyone knew. All over Avonlea, small children were frightened to see grown-up sisters and brothers turn weepy or sullen at the news that Miss Shirley had died. Mothers and fathers soothed and coddled as best they could, but trite condolences were as nothing to the bereaved. Many a supper went to waste that evening, even at the house of Pye.

* * *

Shortly after nightfall, Cora Blythe looked up from the cup of cold tea sitting before her on the kitchen table. The kitchen door creaked open to reveal the gruesome apparition of her son, chivvied through the door by a harassed-looking Fred and a careworn John.

"Gilbert!" Cora exclaimed, nearly upsetting the table in her haste to rise.

Between them, they managed to settle Gilbert into a chair. His pallor was frightful, his silence more awful still. Casting around for something, anything, Cora seized her son's lacerated hands.

"Darling, what happened here?"

He made no reply, but she had not really expected one.

At the door, John was conferring with Fred in low tones.

"I really must be getting home to Diana, Mr. Blythe."

"Of course, Fred. We can never thank you enough for your help today."

Fred nodded once and was gone, hurrying through the dark.

In the kitchen, John helped Cora gather soap and basin, bandages and balm. Cora took Gilbert's hands gently in her own, gritting her teeth against her dismay at the torn and bleeding flesh. One gash, along the base of his left thumb, was so deep that she glimpsed a gleam of silver-white tendon.

A significant look sent John to fetch Dr. Telmann from Green Gables. With any luck, Mrs. Lynde would have returned by now to sit with Marilla. If not, well, Cora would do what she could in the interim.

She dabbed and rinsed, apologizing to Gilbert in a low and steady voice. He did not flinch, which worried her more than any of his physical wounds.

Cora had finished with Gilbert's hands and moved on to the scratches on his face when John arrived, Dr. Telmann's grave visage looming out of the dark behind him.

"John says his hands are bad?"

"Yes," Cora replied. "There's one wound that needs stitches, but the others should heal with bandages and rest."

Dr. Telmann took Cora's place, murmuring to Gilbert as he examined his hands. John put the kettle on as Cora washed her own hands, trading between them the wordless looks through which long-married couples conduct entire conversations.

"This will sting a bit, son," Dr. Telmann warned as he washed Gilbert's palm with iodine. Other than a single intake of breath when the suture needle flashed in and out, Gilbert remained unmoved.

Sometime later, supported by his parents, Gilbert made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. John helped him into pajamas and settled him in bed before calling Dr. Telmann. Cora followed behind, carrying a glass of milk.

Dr. Telmann was beyond troubled at the transformation the day had brought to the bright, eager young man he had already begun to think of as a colleague. But the kindhearted physician was no stranger to grief. Putting aside his affection for the boy, he armored himself in his profession. He pulled a chair to the bedside and endeavored to attract Gilbert's attention.

"Now see here, son. You've got your parents in a spot of worry about you."

No response.

"I know you're not up to much at the moment, but I'm going to need you to cooperate with me."

Gilbert turned toward the doctor with neither haste nor enthusiasm, but with eyes that saw, rather than staring.

"There's a good lad. You're my patient and you will follow my orders."

Gilbert's brow furrowed, but he made neither reply nor movement.

Dr. Telmann was unperturbed. "The first order is: drink this glass of milk."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow.

"There's a bit of paraldehyde mixed in. More than a bit, really."

A mutinous look shadowed Gilbert's face as he spoke his first coherent words: "I don't want a sedative."

"Be that as it may, you will drink this milk."

Dr. Telmann arranged his face into its most fearsomely authoritative scowl, privately praying that the boy would just take the glass, please let him take the glass, what will we do if he doesn't take the glass?

After a long pause, some of the tension went out of Gilbert's face. He nodded.

Cora stepped forward and handed the cup to Gilbert. He downed it in steady gulps, fighting through the burning sensation that even the cool, thick milk could not mask completely.

"There's a lad," said Dr. Telmann with obvious relief. "You get some rest now. I'll be back to check on you in the morning."

The doctor was nearly to the door when he was arrested by a quiet syllable.

"Wait."

Dr. Telmann turned sympathetic eyes back to the bed. "What can I do for you, son?"

With a jerky effort, Gilbert lurched out of bed. He crossed the room to his untidy desk, rummaging until he found a torn sheet of paper and a pencil. Balancing the page on a book, he paused, pencil hovering. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but a fog was already setting in.

"What day?" he croaked.

"It's Thursday. June 30th."

Gilbert scrawled.

 _30 June 1887  
_ _Dear Phil,  
_ _She died this morning.  
_ _Please write to the others — I don't have the heart.  
_ _\- Gilbert_

He folded the note over itself and addressed it hastily to Mrs. Jonas Blake, Patterson Street Manse, Kingsport, Nova Scotia.

Wordlessly, Gilbert held out the letter to Dr. Telmann. The older man nodded.

"I'll post this right away. Now, you get back into bed and get some rest."

* * *

Sometime in the deep watches of the night, Gilbert woke from the inky void of dreamless sleep. A candle flickered in the corner of his room, where John Blythe kept vigil.

"You should be asleep, Dad."

"So should you."

Silence stretched between them.

"You shouldn't be alone, son."

"No. But I am."


	3. Chapter 3: Last Things First

Content warning: grief/bereavement, death, funeral preparations

* * *

Chapter 3: Last Things First

* * *

Sometime after noon the next day, Gilbert woke to several seconds of merciful confusion. Where was he? What day was it?

As the room resolved into coherence, remembrance rushed back with crushing speed. It took his breath away.

 _Not a nightmare, then._

He shut his eyes tightly, willing the panic rising in his chest to subside. Lights, yellow and purple, crackled behind his eyelids. In a moment that he would remember for all the long days of his life, Gilbert glimpsed a vast, unknowable infinity, and felt a bolt of primal terror.

It passed as quickly as it had come. He lay gasping, tangled in damp sheets, searching desperately for an anchor in the mundane world.

* * *

An hour later, Cora Blythe knocked softly at the bedroom door. Gilbert was sitting up, outwardly calm, and bid her enter.

"I've brought you some tea and toast, dear" she breathed.

"No milk?"

"Not unless you want it."

Gilbert snorted quietly, but accepted the tray.

Cora sat in the corner chair, watching intently as he ate his toast in disciplined, dispassionate bites.

When he had finished this necessary task, Gilbert turned to his mother.

"Have you gone back to Green Gables?" he asked, his voice a study in restraint.

"Yes, I went over this morning to help."

"I think I should go," he said, simply.

"You don't have to, Gilbert."

He paused, wanting to ask her something, but feeling suddenly shy. It is one thing to know a parent as a parent, and quite another to know them as a person. Cora was the best of mothers; Gilbert loved her dearly and knew that she adored him. But he had only ever been her child, and did not know what lay in the shadowed corners of her heart. She would never burden him that way. But, perhaps, if he asked, she might share some of herself, as if she were a friend.

"Mother?"

"Yes?"

"Did you . . . did you see Charlotte? After?"

Mrs. Blythe paused.

"Yes. I washed her, and dressed her, and laid her in her coffin," she whispered. "Just as I did this morning."

Gilbert swallowed, pushing that image away for the time being.

"Are you glad you did?"

Cora considered.

"It was . . . very difficult. But later on, there were times when I was glad to have seen her one last time."

"Do you think I should go?"

Mrs. Blythe searched her son's troubled face with unutterable sadness. How she wished she could protect him from this. She knew what it was to grieve. In a single instant, she saw the years before him, the agonies of emptiness, the self-reproach. His grief would not be hers; no two ever are exactly the same. But she knew enough, and would have given her very life to spare him. Since she could not, she offered only the gift of her experience.

"I can't make this decision for you, dear. I trust you, and you should trust yourself. If you decide to go, trust that that is the right decision. And if not, know that that is also right."

"It seems impossible for anything to be _right_."

"No, I suppose not. There's no right way to do this. But there's no wrong way, either. Whatever you decide, trust yourself. And forgive yourself."

* * *

An hour later, Cora and Gilbert stood on the veranda of Green Gables.

Mrs. Rachel Lynde answered Cora's knock. Her wrinkled face was drawn, seeming to have aged a decade overnight. But her hair was neatly coiled into its customary bun, her black crepe dress tidy. She wore a black lace cap and jet earrings, which stood in glittering contrast to the pallor of her face.

Gilbert was slightly startled by her costume. The question of mourning clothes had not occurred to him, and he wore the same shades of brown and blue he would have worn on any normal Friday. Turning to his mother, Gilbert noticed for the first time that she was also clothed in black, though not quite as severely as Mrs. Lynde, having relieved the grimness of her attire with accents of amethyst.

"Hello, Rachel," said Cora, seizing the initiative when Gilbert seemed dazed. "Is Marilla any better?"

"She's resting more comfortable," replied Mrs. Lynde. "She fell asleep an hour ago."

"May we come in?" Cora had been on the point of assuring Mrs. Lynde that they would be quiet, but bit her tongue, unwilling to promise what she might not be able to deliver.

Mrs. Lynde ushered the Blythes into the kitchen, where the table was heaped as for a feast. Cakes and pies of every description covered the entire surface, interspersed with baskets of fruit and cookies, lush bouquets of carefully selected garden roses, and draggled posies of wildflowers, some of them pulled by the roots, rather than plucked.

Gilbert stared at the bounty, amazed.

"The children have been coming by all day," Mrs. Lynde explained. "Neighbors, too. Mostly they've just been leaving things on the veranda, and I didn't know where else to put them, so . . ."

"Thank you, Rachel," said Cora. "You are doing a wonderful job of managing everything."

Mrs. Lynde, who missed the hatred that flitted across Gilbert's face, looked relieved. "Can I get you both a cup of tea?"

Cora studied her son's expression before giving a cautious answer. "Yes. I'll come and have tea with you in a moment, Rachel. You get it started. I'll be back shortly."

Mrs. Lynde seemed to understand. She hustled off to busy herself with the kettle, leaving Cora free to escort Gilbert to the parlor.

* * *

The door was shut. The Blythes paused in the hallway, each steeling themselves for the ordeal ahead.

"Do you want to go alone, dear? Or shall I come with you?"

Gilbert turned anxious eyes to his mother. The sight of her little boy, utterly lost and afraid, broke her heart anew.

"Come with me, Mama."

Cora nodded, taking his bandaged hand gently in her own.

* * *

The simple coffin rested in the center of the room. The waxen figure inside wore a lacy gown. Not white, Gilbert was inexplicably relieved to see, but green; exactly the sort of green that she would always wear in memory and dreams.

Gilbert willed himself to approach.

 _There is no right way to do this. There is no wrong way to do this._

His eyes fluttered shut, only for an instant. When they opened, he allowed himself permission to look.

She was not lovely. Indeed, she was barely recognizable. Without the flush of cheek or flash of eye, without the delicate play of emotion across her exquisite face, she was not herself. Perhaps Gilbert should have been disappointed, but he was not. She was well and truly gone; nothing could change that. But this inert form was not her. Somehow, that made it easier to look.

The face before him held no appeal, so Gilbert studied other details. The dainty curl of hair that fell across her forehead, the filmy lace collar that fringed her throat, the delicate spike of white narcissus folded between her thin hands.

Gilbert cleared his throat several times, then spoke without turning.

"Where is her ring?"

"I have it here," said Cora, reaching into her pocket. "Marilla and I weren't sure whether you would want to keep it."

"No. It's hers. She should have it."

Cora handed over the little circlet of pearls. To Gilbert's vast surprise, it did not burn his fingertips.

He bent over the coffin, fully intending to place the ring on her finger, where it belonged. Amazed, he found that he could not.

How would it feel to touch her cold, dead fingers? Would their unyielding stiffness drive out any echo of her living, loving touch?

Cora saw his confusion. "Shall I?" she asked, gently.

Gilbert looked his relief, handing back the ring and glancing away as his mother returned it to its proper place.

"I think . . ." he faltered.

Cora did not rush him.

"I think I'd like to have a moment alone."

"Of course. I'll be in the kitchen when you are ready."

* * *

When his mother had gone, Gilbert drew a single sheet of paper from his pocket. It was covered, front and back, with his own black, upright handwriting, and ragged along the edge where it had been torn from the binding of a journal. He unfolded it with careful fingertips, wincing at the movement of the wounded flesh. His eye slid over the salutation.

 _Hello, sweetheart._

 _I'm believing that you're going to end up reading this . . ._

He read on, lost in his own thoughts from the previous week. A previous life. By the end, he was weeping openly, tears dropping down to smudge the final lines.

 _. . . but no matter what happens when tomorrow comes; I'm yours and you are mine. And I will love you always._

 _\- Gilbert*_

With a shudder, Gilbert folded the page in half, then half again, and once more. Infinitely careful, he reached into the coffin and tucked the little square beneath her folded hands.

He glanced briefly at her small, white face, but looked away again, pushing the image from his mind. He had a thousand memories of dancing gray eyes and sweet, sudden laughs. He would not let this image replace them.

Instead, he stood and bent to kiss the top of her head. Her soft red hair was still thick, still shining, still curling delicately across her brow.

In times past, the practice of preserving locks of hair had made Gilbert's flesh creep. His grandmother had kept a shadowbox in her parlor, filled with a monstrous floral wreath in which each flower was constructed from the looped or braided hair of a deceased Blythe. As a boy, he had recoiled from its wispy tendrils. Even worse was the brooch Alice Blythe had worn every day, displaying the interwoven locks of her own parents. Whenever she hugged him, Gilbert arched his body away from her, hoping to avoid touching that brooch.

This was different. To keep a piece of her by him, in the long, shapeless years ahead, seemed not only logical, but imperative. Gilbert fumbled briefly with his penknife, his bandaged hands clumsy. With exquisite gentleness, he cut a single curl from her temple and folded it reverently into a spare handkerchief.

He should have said a parting word then. In after years, he often wished that he had.

But no words came.

* * *

*quoted from Catiegirl's "When Tomorrow Comes," chapter 37


	4. Chapter 4: Copious I Break

Author's Note:

Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing! Your encouragement means the world to me. I know that this is not an easy story to read. Please trust that I do have an arc in mind, and that I won't leave Gilbert in the depths of despair forever. That horizon is still quite a ways off at the moment, though.

Content warning: grief, funeral, anxiety

* * *

Chapter 4: Copious I Break

* * *

When Gilbert set out before dawn the next morning, a clammy mist enveloped Avonlea. It settled especially in the low places, filling each swale and glen with pearlescent swirls like the breath of some dragon of the deep.

Gilbert carried a large kindling basket under his arm, a pair of shears and a long knife in his belt. An intention had visited him in the wakeful hours of the night, and he meant to see it through.

Over fields and and through thickets, back and back, to the places where few bothered to wander. There, he found the ruins of little Hester Gray's garden. It was both a relief and a wrench to find it unchanged. The moss-covered stone dyke still offered a pleasant seat and the little row of cherry trees bore clusters of ripening fruit. In another life, he would have been here with her, debating whether they should run home to fetch their harvesting baskets.

Gilbert meant to harvest anyway. Not cherries — those would fall and rot, filling the air with the sickly perfume of their putrefaction. No. He was after flowers.

He began with the June lilies. How often had he seen her gather a bouquet of starry white and yellow? She would pluck each flower individually, selecting only the whole and perfect. Gilbert had no such scruples. As best he could manage with his injured hands, he grasped whole clusters of narcissus at a single swipe. The merciless arc of his knife cut down fair and flawed alike, scything through the green stalks as though they were wheat in a field that must be harvested clean.

Gilbert would have liked to reap every last blossom, but his basket was finite, as was his time. The sun was well up when he turned his attention to the double row of rosebushes.

As he hacked at the thorny vines, lines of poetry drifted unbidden through his mind. _All over bouquets of roses, O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies_. His hands were stiff; he winced when the shears encountered resistance, but he did not stop cutting. _Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes._ Blossom and bud he gathered, indiscriminate. _With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, for you and the coffins of all of you O death_.

He stopped only when the basket was heaped so high that he would have difficulty carrying it. Wiping sweat from his face, he pondered the beloved garden. She had loved it so, and he had delighted in her delight. But he had never spared much thought for little Hester Gray, dead at twenty-two, with only her flowers left to mourn her. Did they remember her, these perennials? Or were this year's blooms innocent, forgetful of the girl who had laid their foundations so many years ago? _I mourn, and yet shall mourn, with ever-returning spring.*_

* * *

It was nearly noon when Gilbert reached Green Gables. He was dismayed to see several buggies already parked by the barn, and horses milling in the paddock. Silverspot was there, along with the Wrights' bay mare and two or three others he recognized only vaguely.

Rather than going to the door, Gilbert crept to the parlor window. Peering in, he saw Mrs. Lynde, Mrs. Barry, and Jane Andrews busying themselves about the room, setting out chairs and fussing over floral arrangements. Gilbert grimaced. The irresistible imperative that had driven him to gather Hester Gray's flowers had not extended to the logistics of their delivery.

Just then, Fred Wright stepped around the corner of the house. He was distracted by the bundle in his arms, which squirmed in defiance of all Fred's efforts of jostling and cooing.

Gilbert froze.

When Fred noticed him, he stopped as well. The baby protested this sudden lack of movement with a sharp cry, but not sharp enough to break the tension between the two old friends. Fred, who was really quite done in by the necessary labors of the past several days, could think of nothing to say. Gilbert, who had entirely forgotten about Baby Fred's existence, thought briefly that he might actually faint.

They stood in awkward silence. After far too long, Diana appeared, hobbling into sight in response to the baby's unanswered cries. "Oh, give him here, Fred!" she snapped. Then, "Oh! Gilbert!"

Gilbert felt blood return to his face in a rush. "I . . . I . . . I brought flowers," he stammered. "For her."

Diana left the baby with Fred and stepped toward her friend. She looked wretched, Gilbert thought, simultaneously reflecting that he must look a wreck himself. Her hair was neatly, if simply styled, and her black dress was tidy, though much looser and more shapeless than anything Diana Wright had ever worn in public before. But no stylish attire could have disguised the dark smudges ringing her eyes, the slackness of her pale lips, nor her general air of defeat.

"Thank you," she sighed. "Mother and Jane will be glad to have them. And Anne always loved June lilies."

"I'll just . . . leave them here," said Gilbert, placing the basket on the ground and beginning to back away.

"Are you going home to change?"

Gilbert sucked breath over his teeth. "No."

"You can't come in looking like that," said Diana, blankly.

"No," came the dull reply. "I don't mean to."

"You're not coming in?" she asked, incredulous.

 _There's no right way to do this. There's no wrong way to do this._

"No," Gilbert replied.

Diana exploded.

"WHAT?! You are just going to skulk around out here while we're all in there? You're not even going to pay your respects to Anne?"

Gilbert winced. "I did. I came yesterday."

"Oh, and that's enough for you?"

"Diana, I can't."

"You can! I'm here! I can barely walk, but I'm here! Because it's what you do! Anne would want you to be there!"

Gilbert clenched his jaw. Livid spots of scarlet had sprung up in his pallid cheeks, but Diana ignored signs of the impending blast and pressed on.

"What about Marilla? What will she think when she sees that you aren't there? And what will Mrs. Harmon Andrews say?"

This incautious sally left Diana's flank open to attack.

"You may live your life according to the fear of what Mrs. Harmon Andrews might say, Diana," Gilbert shouted. "But I don't! And neither did . . . she!"

Diana, purple with rage, balled her fists and let out a cry that was half invective, half sob.

"You can't even say her name, Gilbert! Say it! Say _Anne_!"

Gilbert went white to lips, though with fury or fear, even he could not have said. Dreading what he might erupt if he stayed a moment longer, he turned and sprinted for the cover of the treeline.

* * *

He leaned his back up against an oak. Gaping like a fish, he struggled to draw breath.

 _Find an anchor._

He dug his fingers into the rough bark, wincing at the pressure on his many abrasions. The sensation was unpleasant, but it was concrete, and that was what he needed at the moment.

When his breathing had slowed, Gilbert loosened his grip on the tree. It might have been minutes, or it might have been hours, though the cheerful midday sunlight sifting through the leaves argued for the former.

Was this going to happen often? Would any stress send him into a petrified, breathless panic? It was one thing to run from Diana; would he soon find himself fleeing lecture halls? Operating theatres?

The prospect struck him cold. He had wondered briefly whether he still wanted to go to medical school, but he had not considered whether he would be able to go. In the past, his drive and ambition had always supplied the place of limited funds and opportunities. What if now, with the Cooper Prize in hand and the road laid plain before him, he could not bear to walk it?

A flutter of movement caught his eye. Buggies crowded with black-clad figures, arriving at the house.

 _Selfish._

How could he spend even a moment thinking of medical school? Her funeral was about to begin. Her open grave stood ready. Her . . .

 _You can't even say her name._

It was true enough. But he hated Diana for noticing.

The lane to Green Gables was soon filled with buggies. More must have been parked along the upper road, judging by the stream of foot traffic over the lawn. From this distance, most of the mourners appeared to Gilbert as an undifferentiated mass of black skirts and suits, punctuated by indistinct heads, blonde, brown, and gray. They were so many. Neighbors and friends, families with strings of children. Gilbert wondered how the house could hold them all.

The sight of all Avonlea gathered together confirmed Gilbert in his decision to stay away. The funeral was for them, not for him. He doubted himself only once, when he recognized Charlie Sloane's loping gait ascending the veranda. Despite his earlier bravado, Gilbert had a bad moment imagining what Charlie might think or say when he noted Gilbert's absence. He made a painful fist against the imagined scorn in those mournful blue eyes and resolved never to speak to Charlie Sloane again.

Presently, voices wafted down from the house. A gentle zephyr bore the words of the hymn into the quiet reaches of wood and field: " _Death like a narrow sea divides that heavenly land from ours . . ._ "**

Gilbert could not stand it. He turned his back to Green Gables and began to walk.

* * *

*Walt Whitman, "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" (1865)

** Details of the funeral preparations, including the singing of Isaac Watts' "A Prospect of Heaven Makes Death Easy," use the funeral of Peter Kirk (described in Chapter 33 of _Anne of Ingleside_ ) as a model.


	5. Chapter 5: An Avonlea Summer

Content warning: grief

* * *

Chapter 5: An Avonlea Summer

* * *

By the third week of July, the ripe beauty of an Avonlea summer was in its fullest flower. Wheat grew tall and straight in the fields, roses hung heavy on the bushes, and shafts of sunshine filtered into all but the darkest corners under the firs. In the Haunted Wood, starflowers ran riot, bursting from the earth in glorious profusion.

Gilbert did not notice. He walked, restlessly, endlessly, to every far-flung corner of Avonlea and many beyond, but he saw neither bird nor bud nor streaming sunlight. If asked, he would have sworn that he knew precisely where he was at all times, thankyouverymuch. But the truth was that he often found himself waking, as from a deep sleep, to find that he had emerged miles from the last place where he had taken notice. He wondered, dazedly, what old Mr. Benson was doing so far from White Sands, before realizing that he had walked all the way to the little schoolhouse where he had spent two such happy years teaching.

Each morning, Gilbert rose before dawn, returning to his parents' house long after nightfall. There was always a warm plate of food waiting for him in the stove when he returned. He would eat a few bites, tasting nothing. Then, he would take the plate outside and scrape some of the remaining meal down the privy, leaving the half-empty plate on the table, where his mother would see it.

* * *

One sultry afternoon, Gilbert's rambles brought him to the Upper West Pond. Heat shimmered along the top of a nearby ridge, but down by the pond, a light breeze blew over the water, cooling the bank. Cattails swayed, and little ripples showed where fish swam just beneath the surface. What had she called it, that day they'd gone fishing? The Waters of . . .*

Gilbert started at a sudden noise from behind a clump of reeds. Cautiously, he peered around them to find a huddled, tow-headed figure, bent head resting on dirty knees.

"Davy?"

Davy jumped. He turned a red, swollen face to Gilbert, alarmed to be surprised in such a posture. In an effort to compose himself, Davy drew his sleeve roughly under his nose, succeeding only in smearing his cheek.

In all the long days since that terrible morning, Gilbert had hardly spared a thought for any grief but his own. But Davy's forlorn little face, honest and vulnerable in its wash of pain, touched him in a way that all the kind, comforting words of condolence had not. He sat down on the bank beside the boy.

"There's no shame in crying, Davy," he said, quietly.

"Yes there is," came the flat reply.

"No. And if there is, don't worry. I've been crying more than you."

Davy showed some interest at this. "I heard Mrs. Lynde say that you're the worst she ever saw."

Gilbert might have been angry. He might have cursed Rachel Lynde for an old besom, or protested that he was not, in fact, the worst she ever saw. But in the moment, Davy's forthright gossip struck him funny, as nothing had in weeks.

"Perhaps I am," he said through the ghost of a chuckle.

"I never felt like this before," Davy commented. "When my Ma died, it didn't feel like this. Why do I feel so now?"

Gilbert paused, thoughtful. "Well, maybe a few reasons, Davy. For one, you're older now. Maybe when you were very young, you didn't understand as you do now. And for another, your mother was very ill nearly your whole life. Maybe you were used to feeling sad about her."

"Ma told me she was glad to die. Why should anyone be glad to die? Shouldn't she want to get well?"

"I'm sure she did, Davy. She would have loved to get well, and spend years and years with you and Dora. But she knew she couldn't, so she was just glad not to be sick anymore."

"Did Anne want to die?"

Gilbert blanched. The innocent question slammed into him with all the force of a cannonball, and the impact sent him reeling. But for all his comforting words, he did not want to cry in front of the child. He choked back the constriction in his throat, pushing it down into the tight, unyielding mass in his chest. With a valiant effort, he managed to force out a barely audible, "no."

Silence stretched between them for long minutes. Dragonflies dipped and dived over the pond, winking in the hazy, golden light of the July afternoon. The breeze wafted gently through the distant firs, rustling their boughs, scenting the air with a spicy tang. And she was gone.

"Gilbert? Mrs. Lynde says that Anne is in heaven with God. Is she? I want to know."

Gilbert was a long time answering. "I don't know, Davy. I just don't know."

* * *

Gilbert went home to supper that evening. Cora Blythe looked up sharply when he appeared in the kitchen door, but said nothing. She exchanged a furtive glance with John, but went on setting the table with unhurried efficiency.

Over bread and meat, Cora and John chatted lightly about the farm. The apples were coming along well. The milk cow's sore leg was recovering nicely. The new clothesline was working just fine, thank you. Gilbert said nothing. He ate methodically, applying himself to his food as he might to any rote memorization.

When the meal was over and the dishes cleared, he continued to sit, staring at the cup of tea someone had set before him. Cora wiped her hands on a dishtowel and moved to stand behind him. Hesitantly, she placed a hand on his shoulder. Mother and son were still for a moment. Then, very slowly, Gilbert lifted his own hand and rested it over hers.

It was not late when Gilbert went to bed. But when John crept to the door to check on him an hour later, he was asleep.

* * *

In the days that followed, Gilbert turned up for supper often enough that his mother began to expect him. He still rose before dawn to pass his days walking the woods and wilds of Avonlea. Sometimes, it was a comfort to pass an hour in Violet Vale or walking the Birch Path. Sometimes, the familiar places made him feel as if he must claw the skin from his body to escape them. At those times, he walked the shore, grateful for the crash and fury of waves dashing against the rocks.

In one of his calmer moods, Gilbert wandered through the Haunted Wood, past Orchard Slope and back toward the fields behind Lone Willow Farm. He did not approach the house, preferring to rest against a tree near the brook that trickled along the western border of the pasture. Someone must have seen him, though. Within a quarter hour, Fred appeared, carrying a basket overflowing with baked goods.

"Hello, Gil."

"Hello, Fred."

"Quite a high tea you have there," said Gilbert, regarding the basket.

Fred flopped down beside him on the mossy bank. "I don't know why women always think food will help, but they do insist."

He drew several parcels from the basket, unwrapping scones, coffee cake, and cookies, and setting them out between them.

"Thanks," said Gilbert, taking a berry-studded scone.

Fred munched a cookie for something to do, not quite sure how to begin a conversation with his old friend. Gilbert saw his predicament and took pity on him.

"The farm is coming along?"

"Oh yes," said a visibly relieved Fred. He told Gilbert of his crops and livestock, of fences that needed mending and seedlings that were beginning to grow tall in the orchard.

"We won't have cherries for several years yet, but the trees are healthy and I think we'll do alright."

"How is the . . . uh . . . the baby?" Gilbert forced the words out. He wanted to know, really he did. But it was awfully hard to ask.

Fred smiled ruefully. "He's loud. And wet."

Gilbert grunted.

"I don't know when I've ever been so distracted," Fred continued. "I was in the barn yesterday, trying to feed the stock. I filled the nosebags with chicken feed and gave the oats to the hens. I didn't even notice until the horses complained."

"Not sleeping much?"

"Diana's up half a dozen times in the night to feed him. She tells me to go back to sleep, but once I'm awake, I just can't settle. I tried sleeping in the spare room one night, but then I just lay awake feeling selfish."

"But he's doing well?"

"Yes," replied Fred, a shy glow creeping over his round face. "He's wonderful. And Diana is so good with him."

"I'm happy for you, Fred."

Fred searched his friend's face and found that he could not quite puzzle out the mixture of emotions there. But he had known Gilbert Blythe all his life. He knew he was glad, or as glad as he could be right now. That might not be very much, but Fred took the gift.

"Thanks, Gil."

They sat in silence then. Fred tossed a small stone into the brook; Gilbert crumbled his scone between his fingers.

"Gilbert?"

"Hm?"

"Diana wanted me to ask you something, and I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"It's . . . well . . . Marilla asked Diana to . . . to . . . pick a gravestone."

Whatever appetite Gilbert had had vanished, his stomach twisting mercilessly.

"She . . . well . . . she wanted to ask if you . . . if you wanted anything in particular."

It wasn't a question Gilbert had considered before. The idea of "wanting" anything to do with a gravestone was hideous. But he remembered the old graveyard across the street from 38 St John's, the funny epitaphs and curious little carvings. How she had sighed over some of the stories there, imagining the adventures of sea captains and the full, happy lives of old married couples, long buried beneath carvings of clasped hands.

He sighed. "I don't care, Fred. I couldn't possibly care."

Fred nodded. "Alright. Di just wanted me to ask."

Gilbert nodded perfunctorily. After a short silence, he asked, "Is she still angry at me? About the funeral?"

"She was never really angry, Gil."

"Had me fooled."

"She was just . . ."

"I know. Tell her I'm sorry anyway."

Some time later, Gilbert stood, dusting off his trousers.

"It's good to see you, Gil," said Fred, scrambling to his feet.

"And you. Thank Diana for the food."

"Take some with you."

Gilbert grimaced. "There isn't anywhere to put it. My mother has baked so many pies she's had to start borrowing dishes from the neighbors."

"It's just their way, I guess."

"I guess."

"Can we come visit you sometime?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I know Di wants to see you. You could come to us."

Gilbert swallowed hard. "I don't know if I can see her . . . them . . . yet."

Fred nodded. "You just tell me when. And you're always welcome to stop by. Our door is always open. Or just sit here and give a wave."

"Thanks, Fred."

They parted then, Gilbert walking slowly back along the fence line. Fred watched him for a long while. With a heavy heart, he packed up the basket and turned homeward, toward Diana and Baby Fred.

* * *

After supper, Cora Blythe sat down across the table from her son.

"I had a letter today."

"Oh?"

"From a Mrs. Jonas Blake."

That got Gilbert's attention. He sat up a little straighter, his eyebrows raised in question.

Cora did not mention the pile of unopened letters on his desk upstairs, at least four of them addressed in the handwriting of this same Mrs. Blake. She did not mention the distress woven through every line of the one addressed to her, nor the slightly alarming references to Gilbert's own health in the not-so-distant past.

Instead, she said, "She and her husband are coming here for a little visit."

"No they aren't."

"Yes, they are. She says that they must stay in Kingsport for Sunday services, but that they should arrive sometime next Monday evening."

"She just invited herself?"

"She's perfectly welcome. And I suspect that she may have made more deferential requests in her previous letters."

"What if I don't want to see her?"

"Aren't you friends? She said that you and Rev. Blake are very close. You were his best man."

Gilbert's brow was dark and drawn. "Mother, I can't . . ."

"Can't what, Gilbert? Can't accept help from your friends?"

He stood suddenly, rattling the teacups in their saucers.

"I can't keep it together in front of people!" he shouted. "I can't have a normal conversation, not knowing when some innocent little comment will send me crashing through the floor! Phil and Jo are my friends, yes. But only because of her. I can't do it! I can't just sit and chat over tea without going to pieces."

Cora regarded him coolly. With the immovable dignity that she had developed to meet his childhood tantrums, she replied, "Then go to pieces, dear."

Gilbert threw back his head with a growl of frustration.

"It's hard enough already. I could barely talk to Fred today! I don't want to see anyone."

"You mean you don't want anyone to see you."

"Same thing."

"It's not." Cora stood of her own accord now, meeting her son's glare with her own. "Gilbert, you are in terrible pain. It makes you vulnerable. For once, you're not in charge. And you're too proud to let anyone see that."

Gilbert spluttered, but Cora pressed her advantage. "These friends love you, Gilbert. You stood up for them when they took their vows, and they would have done the same for you. That means being there through the worst, as well as the best."

"I can't!"

"You have to let people love you!"

His face crumpled then. She stepped neatly around the table and caught him, folding to the floor with him as the strength left his body. He sobbed into her apron, gulping air, shaking. Cora stroked his brown curls, murmuring. John, who had been lurking in the doorway since the shouting began, came in and knelt beside them, putting one strong, brown arm around each of them.

Even after the tears subsided, Gilbert lay motionless, letting his parents hold him as they hadn't since he was small.

"We love you, Gil," John said, his voice low and husky.

"I know."

They sat that way for a long while. When the kitchen began to grow dim, Gilbert finally sat up, knuckling his swollen eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"Absolutely not."

"Mama . . ."

"There will be no apologies, Gilbert. This is our job."

"But I shouldn't have . . ."

"Gilbert John Blythe. If you are under the impression that you are the most stubborn person in this room, you are sadly mistaken."

His mouth twitched as if the muscles were trying to remember how to smile.

"Alright then. What do you want me to do?"

Cora looked over his tousled hair, shadowed eyes, and gaunt cheeks.

"Go to bed," she said, with decision.

* * *

"Mother, this is ridiculous."

"It most certainly is not," Cora sniffed as she settled herself into a chair in her son's room. She opened the red-covered copy of _Treasure Island_ Gilbert had brought home from Kingsport, turning the preliminary pages until she found the first chapter.

"You have not read me a storybook in fifteen years," said an exasperated Gilbert from the bed. He had wanted to protest when his mother forced him into his pajamas, and again when she had tucked him in under the blue and green quilt. But he had caught the look of challenge in her eye and decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Still, she was taking things a bit far.

"This isn't going to work," he grumbled.

Cora pursed her lips and peered over the top of her spectacles. "Dr. Telmann left me several vials of paraldehyde and there's plenty of milk in the pantry. Your choice."

"Fine."

He turned away from her in a huff, pulling the blankets high and snug around his shoulders as she began to read: " _Part I: The Old Buccaneer_ . . ."

* * *

*Read Catiegirl's _Golden Days_ , chapter 2.


	6. Chapter 6: A Threefold Cord

Content warning: grief

* * *

Chapter 6: A Threefold Cord

* * *

Jonas Blake looked out at the lush countryside as the train rattled its way from Charlottetown to Carmody. Phil had finally fallen asleep on the seat beside him, her dear little curly head nestled snugly against his chest. He smiled wanly, happy to see her resting, but feeling the lack of sleep himself.

It had been a terrible few weeks. They had barely arrived at the manse on Patterson Street when they received word of Anne's illness. Jo had confessed what he knew to Phil and been mildly stunned by her rage. For the most part, this was directed at Gilbert for his decision to keep the truth from Anne, but Jo came in for his own fair share, owing to his silence. He had not been able to stop her from sending a furious letter to Avonlea.

 _Gilbert Blythe, why didn't you tell me. It all makes sense now . . .*_

There had been no reply. Jo had prayed fervently that no news was good news, but understood instinctively that this was a desperate sort of silence. When Gilbert's last letter finally did arrive, there was no need even to open it.

Phil had been inconsolable. For weeks, she had haunted the manse, alternately weeping and pacing, pausing now and then to write long, tear-soaked letters to Gilbert, all of them unanswered. Jo had cried with her and prayed with her, but what could be done?

In desperation, Jo had asked a senior pastor for guidance, but found his answers wholly unsatisfactory. At his suggestion, Jo had tried one "all things work together for good" on Phil and gotten only a baleful glare for his troubles. His faith was strong, even in the face of this overwhelming tragedy, but he quailed at the prospect of trying to comfort Gilbert.

Jo looked down at his bride. In the past three weeks, he had tried to avoid imagining what it might be like to lose her. The mirthful, irrepressible Phil. Her love for him was bewildering, unaccountable no matter how he stacked the balances. He was still more than a little shocked to wake up next to her every morning. How would it feel to watch her suffer? To lose her? And still bless God's name?

With his free hand, Jo opened his pocket testament to Romans.

 _Likewise the Spirit also helpeth our infirmities: for we know not what we should pray as we ought: but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groaning that cannot be uttered._

 _Please_ , he prayed, _let me be strong for them_.

When they neared the Carmody station, Jonas roused Phil, though he hated to do it.

"Wake up, darling," he whispered, kissing the crown of her head.

She stretched, yawning with the kittenish abandon that made his heart race. "Are we there?"

"Nearly. The conductor announced Carmody just a minute ago."

"Oh, Jo," breathed Phil, turning huge eyes to him, "I'm frightened."

He squeezed her hand. "I am, too. I've been praying on it. And I just don't think there's any way to comfort him. Nor you either," he added, seeing that her eyes had filled with tears. "Nothing we can say will put things right."

"Then what are we to do?" she whimpered.

Jo sighed. "Romans 12:15 tells us: _Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep_. Right now, I think that's all we can do."

* * *

The eight o'clock train pulled in to a nearly empty platform at Carmody. Only a handful of people disembarked, most of them carrying packages from a day's business in Charlottetown. Jonas needed only a moment to scan the platform before spotting Gilbert with an older man who could only be his father. He had scarcely turned toward them when Phil took off running, dropping her carpet bag and flinging herself into Gilbert's arms. They clung together, swaying, both of them sobbing shamelessly. A few lingering travelers shot disapproving looks at this untoward display, but moved on quickly, discomfited.

Anne had once told Jo that Gilbert and Phil were the siblings that neither had ever had. Seeing them together like this confirmed it. It wasn't just their looks, though they shared a similar beauty of brown curls and roguish smiles. It wasn't even their personalities, though both had a fine appreciation for mischief, balanced by the stubborn brilliance of their intellects. No, it was something in the way they saw one another—clear-eyed, attuned to one another's strengths and weaknesses for good or ill, unafraid to cajole or correct as necessary—that made them seem like brother and sister. Allied, they were formidable; in conflict, they were unbearable. In the days of Patty's Place, Jo had reflected on more than one occasion that it was quite a lucky thing for him that Gilbert Blythe's affection toward Phil was so wholly fraternal.

Jo approached the pair, feeling rather awkward as they wept tempestuously in one another's arms. He shared a faint smile with John Blythe, who nodded sympathetically.

After a few minutes, the first stormy burst subsided, only to be followed by a second round. Jo shifted his weight uneasily. Really, this was a bit much.

At last, Gilbert's muffled voice filtered up from their fused forms. "Is this supposed to help me feel better, Phil?"

She sniffled. "No. I don't know. I'll admit that I haven't been thinking strategically lately. But it is awful good to see you, honey, and just have a cry together."

"I'm afraid you'll soon get your fill of that around here."

She stepped back, holding him at arm's length.

"Gil, you look positively ghastly."

"So do you, Phil."

"Well, I'm sure I can't look as bad as I feel, and that's the truth," she replied, accepting Jo's proffered handkerchief and blotting her face.

Gilbert applied his own handkerchief before extending a hand to Jonas.

"Jo. It's good to see you," he said, pulling his friend into a brief hug. "Sorry to be quite so familiar with your wife."

Phil gave him a little slap on the arm and managed a smile for John Blythe.

"Phil Gor . . . that is, Phil Blake. I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Blythe."

John shook her hand, slightly bemused, though he seemed pleased by Gilbert's obvious affection for his friends.

As John drove home along the upper Carmody road, the young trio chatted pleasantly enough, with Phil doing most of the heavy lifting. She spoke of Patterson Street, of the congregation, and of Jo's ministry, steering clear of weightier matters.

By the time they reached the Blythe homestead, the midsummer twilight had descended and fireflies winked through the yard. Cora met them at the door, ushering them in with glad welcome. While John carried the bags to the spare room, Cora settled Gilbert and the Blakes in the sitting room with a generous tray of tea and treats. She was relieved to see a certain relaxation in her son's expression. Not quite a smile, but he was calm and alert, attentive to his guests, rather than lost in his own thoughts.

"Thank you so much for having us, Mrs. Blythe," gushed Phil.

"My pleasure, dears," Cora replied with enthusiasm. "Now, I'll just be in the kitchen. You call if you need anything at all."

When she closed the door behind her, Gilbert let out a long breath.

"I have to apologize to you both. I never answered your letters. Never even read them, to be honest. I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to forgive, Gil," replied Jo. "We never intended to burden you. We just wanted you to know that we care."

Gilbert's voice was husky. "Thanks. And thanks for writing to my mother. I'll admit I wasn't exactly keen on having visitors, but I'm glad to see you both."

"I'm awful sorry we missed the funeral," said Phil. "By the time we got your letter, there just wasn't time to make the trip."

Gilbert nodded. "I . . . I didn't go either."

Phil's eyes widened. "You . . . didn't go?"

"I couldn't," he said, misery so evident in his tone that she didn't press for details.

"I know. That letter . . . " she trailed off.

"Phil, I'm sorry about that. I should have waited. Waited until I wasn't . . ."

"No. You were right to tell us straight away."

"But I should have taken more time, broken the news more gently."

"Gil," she sighed, taking his hand, "we knew the news as soon as we saw your handwriting on the address."

"Yes. Well." Gilbert cleared his throat, drew away, buried his nose in his teacup.

After a pause, Jo leaned forward. "Tell us, Gil."

"I don't know if I can," he muttered.

"You can try," said Jo, earnestly.

"Oh, Jo, let him be," snapped Phil, shooting her husband a look of warning.

"No. It's alright," said Gilbert, straightening up. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything you're willing to tell."

Gilbert took a deep breath, then another, and let it out very, very slowly. "You already know the beginning. When we arrived home after the wedding . . ."

* * *

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Jonas carried the tea tray into the kitchen, intending to refill the pot. To his surprise, Gilbert's parents were still awake, sitting at the kitchen table with their own cups.

"I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Blythe. I didn't realize that you were sitting out here. You should come in and join us."

Cora and John exchanged an amused look.

"Jonas, dear," said Cora gently, "You go back in there and keep doing whatever it is you're doing. He's _talking_ to you."

A pained expression shadowed Jo's kind face. "You mean he hasn't been talking?"

Cora shook her head.

John let out a huff of breath. "There's been a bit of shouting now and again . . ."

Jo nodded grimly. "It's obviously difficult for him to say anything at all. He's not really telling the whole story, only bits. And never really about Anne, at least not directly. I'm just glad we're here to listen."

Cora smiled at the young minister. "Me, too."

* * *

By the time Jonas returned with the tea tray, the sitting room fire was burning low and the conversation had taken a turn.

"Don't you see, Phil?" said Gilbert, so intently that Jo suspected that he had not noticed the opening and closing of the door. "None of this would ever have happened if she'd stayed with Roy! She never would have heard of Timothy. Never gone to his house. Never gotten sick at all!"

Phil was shaking her head vigorously. "No, Gilbert. No. You are torturing yourself with what-ifs. Anne belonged with you. She was happy with you. She was never happy with Roy."

"But she would have been safe!"

Gilbert's voice rose and cracked. The tears he had kept at bay since the scene at the station were running in rivulets down his flushed face, and he made no move to dry them.

Phil knelt down before him and took his hands in hers. "You must stop blaming yourself. None of this is your fault."

"You just don't understand," he said, withdrawing.

"Don't I?" asked Phil, heating up. "You think I don't blame myself? For weeks, I thought of nothing but wedding nonsense. I didn't notice what was right in front of me, or else I wrote it off as exam jitters. Anne was disappearing and I never gave a second thought to anything but whether her dress fit!"

Gilbert pressed his lips together, regaining his own composure as Phil barreled on.

"If I hadn't had that ridiculous wedding, tiring her out with silly things! She should have been resting! I kept her up half the night, chatting over my petty little anxieties. All I can think is that she might have been able to fight it off it I hadn't kept worrying her so!"

"No, Phil," Gilbert said thickly. "She loved you. She was so happy to be there with you."

"And the same goes for you! Anne was so happy this past year. She wouldn't have traded that for anything."

Gilbert snorted. "Not for her life? I would have. I would have stayed away forever if I had known . . ."

Phil was on her feet, livid. "Then you would have been an idiot, Gilbert Blythe! You were right to come back! Anne was miserable without you!"

"But I couldn't . . ."

Jonas set the tea down on the table beside them with a sharp rattle of cups that gained their attention. Both tearstained faces gawped at him in surprise. Jo looked from one to the other, love and distress intermingled on his kind, homely face.

"Listen to yourselves," he said gently. "You're right, both of you. This is no one's fault. Somewhere in your brains, you understand that, and can forgive one another. I only wish you could both show that same compassion to yourselves."

Phil sat. Gilbert slumped, rubbing his hands roughly over his face.

"It's just . . . it was my job to protect her," he said, weakly.

"An impossible task," said Jo, kneeling beside Gilbert, but locking eyes with Phil.

"I know that," Gilbert replied. "I realized it even before . . ."

After a long pause, Jo spoke. "We can't protect the people we love from pain. We can only share it with them."

Gilbert stared blankly ahead for several heartbeats.

Abruptly, he rose and strode from the room.

"I just need some air," he said to his startled parents as he blew past them and through the kitchen door.

"Gilbert, wait!" Cora called after him.

But he was gone.

* * *

Sometime later, Jonas walked out into the orchard, a lantern in his outstretched hand. The crescent moon gave little light and the lantern blinded him to everything outside the quivering circumference of its influence. He heard Gilbert before he saw him, a darker shadow against the blackness of the night.

"Did my mother send you?"

Jo placed the lantern on the ground and sighed. "She just wants to be sure that you're . . ."

"Safe?"

Jo grunted.

"I don't need a nanny, Jonas."

"No. But you might need a minister."

There was no humor in the hard little laugh that floated up from beyond the circle of light. "If you're going to try to convince me that God is in control or that good comes out of evil or any of that, you can save your breath."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Good."

They stood for a long while.

When a voice broke the silence, it was Gilbert's. "I wish I could believe."

Jo's voice was tender. "Faith is often tested in times like these."

"No," came the response, an impatient groan. "It's not just this. There have been a lot of things these past few years. In my studies. Doubts. I've wondered whether God is just a name we put on things we don't understand."

"That's not a bad way of putting it," said Jo, praying earnestly to find words that might reach his friend.

"But we're learning so much. New discoveries every day. For thousands of years, disease was a sign or a mystery. People called it Providence because they didn't know about germs, and even if they had, they had no way to fight them. Now we know what makes people ill, and it isn't God or the Devil. It's just brainless, senseless, amoral microorganisms."

Jo had some thoughts about that, but tactfully kept them to himself. Though he relished a theological argument among his peers, he recognized that argument could avail him nothing in this situation. Better to listen.

"Do you think that science will eventually solve all of our mysteries?" Jo asked.

"Maybe. I don't know. I suppose not. And maybe there's more to it that I don't understand. But how can the God we learned about in Sunday School be real? All-knowing, all-powerful, always in control? That would mean believing that there's a reason for . . . all this. And there's just no reason I can accept."

"I think you may be right," said Jo, choosing his words carefully. "I don't have all that much use for a God of victory. But I do believe in a God of weakness. Of compassion. And Grace. And that's all as much a mystery to me as it ever was."

Gilbert was a long time answering.

"Jonas? Will you pray for me? Because I can't."

Jo choked back his own tears. "Always."

Gilbert exhaled. "Be sure to tell my mother that part. She'll like it fine. But not the rest, ok?"

Jo stepped beyond the lantern light and gathered his friend into an embrace. After a moment, they parted, wordless, and headed back toward the house.

* * *

 _Sermon Notes_

 _Patterson Street Mission Church_

 _July 1887_

 _Ecclesiastes 4:9-12_

 _9: Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour._

 _10: For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up._

 _11: Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone?_

 _12: And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken._

* * *

*from Catiegirl's "When Tomorrow Comes," chapter 33


	7. Chapter 7: Phil is Invited to Tea

Chapter 7: Phil is Invited to Tea

* * *

At tea time the next day, Philippa Gordon — Phil Blake, rather — stood on the veranda of Lone Willow Farm, shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot. How she had longed to meet Anne's beloved Diana, but not like this. Phil felt as if she knew Diana already; she had heard so many stories of her exploits with Anne, and had had so many of Diana's cheerful, affectionate letters read aloud to her at Patty's Place. Phil had even written to Diana herself once last fall, after Diana's pivotal letter of advice and admonishment had prodded Anne into accepting that she loved Gilbert.

 _Dear Mrs. Wright,  
_ _We haven't met, but I must write to thank you for speaking so forthrightly to Anne. She shared your excellent letter with us girls the other night and I must say bravo to you for telling her what needed to be told. None of us had the spunk to carry it off. I'm sure you'll hear from Anne herself soon enough, but I think I am safe in saying that your words have done a world of good . . ._

Anne had often spoken of having Phil out to Avonlea, with a visit to Diana counted among the principal attractions. Now Phil stood before the door at Lone Willow Farm, all the joy drained out of this much-anticipated introduction. She fiddled with the ribbon on the box she carried, worrying the edge until it frayed.

Jonas knocked. Within moments, a pretty, raven-haired woman in black answered. Anne had always described Diana as pleasantly plump, with rosy cheeks and dimples, but the face that greeted them showed signs of strain in sallow skin and puffy eyelids. Nevertheless, Diana Wright had been trained from childhood to play the gracious hostess. She smiled warmly at her guests, even if the expression did not quite reach her eyes.

"You must be Reverend Blake," Diana said, extending a hand to Jonas. "And Mrs. Blake. I'm so glad to meet you, dear. I've heard so much about you. Please come in."

"Oh, do call me Phil!" answered that ebullient damsel. "I feel as though we were chums already, only we hadn't met yet."

Diana nodded. "I feel the same way. You must call me Diana, of course."

"Dear Diana. I'm so glad. And so very, very sorry." Phil clasped Diana's hand in both of hers, willing Anne's oldest friend to understand that she too had loved Anne. Diana smiled and stepped aside, inviting Phil and Jo into her home.

Gilbert followed behind them, pausing at the threshold. He hung his head, unable to meet Diana's eye.

"Diana . . . I . . ."

It did not matter that he could not say more. Diana reached out and placed a hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry, Gil. I never should have spoken that way to you."

Gilbert looked up. "I'm the one who should apologize. I wasn't thinking. At all, about anything, really."

Her face was drawn, but she spoke gently. "I know. Friends?"

Gilbert only nodded, but his posture relaxed and he stepped into the house.

Minnie May Barry had come over from Orchard Slope with Dora to entertain Baby Fred. The girls brought the fat little fellow into the hall to be admired, then bustled out to find a shady corner of the garden.

Once they had gone, Phil followed Diana to the sitting room, with Jonas and Gilbert trailing along after her. Fred met them there, shaking hands solemnly with the Blakes and looking slightly uncomfortable in his starched collar.

Phil admired the details of the homey apartment, adorned according to Diana's keen eye for color and texture. She complimented the fashionable little hooked rug on the hearth and the delicate embroidery of the cushions out of genuine appreciation.

"You have such a lovely home, Diana. We've only begun keeping house at the manse and I'm forever astonished by all the things I never learned. You have such a knack for decorating — perhaps you could advise me on papering a room like this? You've done it up so pretty."

Diana, who, it must be said, loved a compliment as much as she ever had, fairly glowed. In truth, she had been a bit nervous to meet Phil, whom Anne had always described as rich and beautiful. But it was easy to see why Anne had taken this funny, expressive little woman into her heart.

Phil, who was fairly desperate to keep the conversation rolling along, presented Diana with the beribboned box she carried.

"I've been working on this, though I don't imagine it's as fine as what you can make. But I do hope you will like it."

Diana opened to box and lifted out a delicate little dress of white cotton voile. She exclaimed over it, admiring every tuck and frill.

Phil beamed at her delight. "Anne taught me," she said quietly.

Diana looked up, curious.

"I never did much sewing as a girl," Phil said, apologetically. "But this spring, when Anne began making a dress for your little one, I asked her to teach me."

Phil stopped short, her voice catching. Those cozy evenings at Patty's Place, taking breaks from their studies to work side-by-side over the gossamer dresses and their matching bonnets. Phil had been uncharacteristically shy, but Anne had understood. How she had smiled to see Phil's earnest attempts, reading in them her hopes for the future.

"Really, there's more of her work in it than mine," Phil confessed. "I'm getting to be a decent enough cook and I can do plain sewing, but all the little gathers and pleats . . ."

Diana cut off her explanation with an embrace. When she broke away, both women's cheeks glistened with tears. Diana managed to smile through hers.

"Thank you, dear. It's lovely. I'll think of you both when little Fred wears it."

Phil nodded unsteadily.

"Let's go in to tea," said Diana kindly. "Fred, will you bring the tray? And Gil . . . where is Gilbert?"

Phil turned, but there was no sign of Gilbert in the sitting room. Surely he had been here just a moment ago. Phil blinked quizzically at Jo, who only shrugged.

Fred sighed and stepped toward the door, but he had not yet reached it when Gilbert returned, looking pale but reasonably composed. No one pressed him for an explanation.

Tea was laid in the parlor, the table vibrant with midsummer roses and Diana's best cherry blossom china. Phil seated herself between Diana and Jo, surreptitiously pressing her leg against Jo's under the table. How nice it was to know that he was there, steady and sure, beside her.

They sat and busied themselves with the small pleasantries of the meal, passing cakes and sandwiches, and accepting tea from a punctiliously correct Diana. After a time, they settled in to talk of mundane matters: Jo gave an account of his church in Patterson Street, Fred related the recent doings of the AVIS, Diana described Baby Fred's habits and temperament.

All this time, Gilbert contributed little to the conversation. He turned his head to look toward whomever was speaking, but Phil noticed that his eyes were slightly unfocused, and that he seemed to be growing paler with every passing minute.

 _Poor man. He's not going to last much longer._

For several minutes, Phil tried to catch Jo's eye without success. In desperation, she reached a hand beneath the table and pinched his leg. He covered his yelp with a cough and stared at her. Phil inclined her head toward Gilbert and, after a long moment, Jo cottoned on.

 _We really do need to get better at this_ , Phil thought, recalling the way her parents could conduct an entire argument and reconciliation through meaningful looks alone.

"Fred," said Jo, slightly interrupting Diana's offer of additional tea, "will you show me the farm? I've heard that you have made some improvements in the orchard, and I'd be interested to see them."

Fred seemed slightly puzzled, but amenable. "It's true, we're trying some new varieties of cherries for the first time in Avonlea. I'd be happy to show you."

"Yes, let's," said Jo, rising. "Come with us, Gilbert."

It was a command, rather than a request. Gilbert blinked up in surprise at Jonas, but took the chance offered him.

As the men followed one another out the kitchen door, Diana turned worried eyes to Phil.

"Is everything alright?"

Phil sighed. "I'm so worried about Gilbert."

"Everyone is," Diana replied. "Oh, Phil. It's been awful. He's been positively haunting the woods around town and he won't speak to anyone. Fred talked to him once last week, but he said that Gil looked half dead himself and didn't say anything at all about Anne. Of course, we all feel . . . terrible . . ."

Here, Diana broke into choking sobs. Phil placed a gentle hand on her arm, feeling tears well in her own eyes.

"I . . . I didn't even see her," Diana wept. "Anne was ill when they arrived home and the doctor said I couldn't see her because of the risk to the baby. I was just wild with worry and everything was such a mess, and I . . . I didn't get to say goodbye!"

Phil pushed back from the table and gathered Diana into her arms, sobbing along with her.

"I know, honey. I know," she crooned.

When Diana could speak again, she lifted still-streaming eyes to Phil. "It's terribly selfish of me, I know. Worrying about how I feel, especially when Gilbert . . . and Marilla . . ."

"No, Diana. You loved Anne. And you are entitled to your grief. It isn't the same as theirs, but it is a terrible blow. You mustn't be ashamed to feel as you do. You loved Anne, and your grief is equal to that love."

Diana nodded, taking several shuddering breaths.

"I can't even imagine, Phil. I know you loved Anne. I did, too. So I know you must know pretty nearly how I feel. But I can't imagine what Gilbert is feeling. Nor Marilla. I heard my mother and Mrs. Lynde talking when they thought that I was asleep, and they're as worried as we are. Mrs. Lynde says that Marilla hasn't been eating, nor sleeping, and she's made herself quite ill. Mrs. Lynde is caring for her, but they haven't been able to take the twins back yet. Mother loves having Dora, of course, and from the way she was talking, it sounded like she's prepared to keep her permanently."

"We're supposed to go over to Green Gables after tea," said Phil. "To pay our respects to Marilla."

Diana's hand flew to her mouth. "Are you bringing Gilbert? He hasn't been back since . . ."

"He's walking us over, yes. But I certainly won't press him to come in if he doesn't want to. Diana, I hate to pry. But I feel that I must ask. What happened at Anne's funeral? All Gil will say is that he didn't go. You could have knocked me over with a feather when he said that, but he didn't say more and I didn't ask."

Diana was nodding along. "He and I had a nasty little fight over it. That's what he apologized for when you arrived. I was distraught — Baby Fred was only three days old and I shouldn't even have been out of bed, but I was just wild with grief. Mother tried to keep me away, but I fought and cried until she relented. Fred and I met Gilbert there — he had brought up some flowers — and when he said he wasn't coming inside, I just tore into him. I can see now that he just couldn't face people. I've felt wretched over the whole thing ever since. The funeral was . . . oh, Phil! It was horrible. You never saw so many desperate people. The children were all howling and the minister barely able to get through the prayers without someone drowning him out with crying. And the procession . . . but no. I can't."

Phil's face had gone quite pale and her brown eyes huge. She gripped Diana's hand and swallowed her own tears.

"It's awful. The most awful thing."

Diana looked at her beseechingly.

"Oh, Phil. We must be friends after this. I know we've only just met, but I feel as though I know you from everything Anne said and wrote. I'm so lonely here, with Anne gone and Ruby too, and Jane off to the ends of the earth. There's Minnie May, but she's only a girl and I can't speak to her as to a woman friend. I know I can never be Anne to you, just as you cannot be her to me, but say you'll be my friend! Let us help each other in our sorrow."

Phil forced a smile through her tears.

"Of course, honey. I'd be proud to have you as my friend. It's just as you say. We've only just met, but I can tell you that you were always a part of our circle at Patty's Place. Anne would read us your letters and tell us stories about you, and I feel quite as if I had known you all along."

Diana straightened up a bit and squinted slightly. "Anne didn't read . . . _every_ letter to you. Did she?"

Phil giggled. "Certainly not. And there were times when she would skip a page or a paragraph, even though I assure you that we were all quite interested to hear them. She mostly read your news from Avonlea or funny stories you would tell. Though there was that letter last fall . . ."

Diana blushed.

"I was so nervous to send that letter. After I posted it, I walked home and then ran back to the post office to call it back, but the postmaster had already sent the morning mail off to Carmody. I was afraid Anne would be furious and I would make things worse."

"Not a bit of it," said Phil. "You were exactly right and we all told Anne so." Her voice softened. "You gave them half a year, Diana. It was a wonderful thing."

"I had hoped they would get there on their own."

"I'm sure they would have. But perhaps not in time."

Diana pulled a tight smile.

"Do you think there is anything we can do for Gilbert? I never saw anyone like that before. It scares me."

"I don't know," Phil replied soberly. "I had a talk with his mother this morning. She wants me and Jo to look after him in Kingsport this fall. I'm happy to do it, of course. But Gil hasn't said anything at all about Kingsport to us since we arrived. I'm beginning to be afraid that he isn't planning on going to medical school."

"But he must! He's wanted to be a doctor all his life, even before Anne came to Avonlea. We mustn't let him give that up!"

"I know. And I'll do everything in my power to help him through, if only we can convince him to go. Mrs. Blythe hinted that they may try to send him away from Avonlea for the rest of the summer to let him rest a bit and recover."

"Where would he go?"

"She said that his great-uncle is a doctor somewhere. Glen something?"

Diana brightened. "Oh, yes. Glen St. Mary. I heard Anne speak of it once or twice. Do you think he'll agree to go?"

"I don't know. Do you think it a good idea?"

Diana pondered before giving a solemn nod.

"Yes, I think it is. You didn't know Anne when she was a girl, Phil, but she lived in these woods and meadows like she was the queen of them all. When she and Gil were here, before they went to Redmond, they would go out into the forest for hours and hours at a time. Honestly, I was a bit shocked that Marilla allowed it. My mother wouldn't have. I don't know what he does out there now, but people say they have seen him at all hours, all over the countryside. I don't know what it means, but I think it would be a good idea to take him away from Avonlea for a while. And if a doctor could keep an eye on him, so much the better."

Phil nodded and gave Diana's hand a squeeze.

"You're a good friend, Diana. Anne was lucky to have you. And so is Gilbert."

"You as well, Phil."

Their embrace was interrupted by the banging of the kitchen door, announcing the men's return. Fred was still talking animatedly to Jo about cherries, his red face bobbing above loosened collar and tie. Gilbert followed behind, looking tired, but not quite so green as before.

When Diana saw her visitors to the door, Phil gave her one last, impulsive hug.

"Write me often, honey, and I'll do the same. We'll be the best of pen pals."

"I will," Diana smiled. She gave Phil a curt little nod, by which Phil understood that she had been blessed with the power of resolve.

Phil nodded back, grateful for a gift she knew she would need.


	8. Chapter 8: A Visit to Green Gables

Chapter 8: A Visit to Green Gables

* * *

If anyone had looked at Green Gables that evening, they would have seen three figures walk up the lane as far as the gate, then pause. They would have seen two continue on up the drive to the silent, shadowed house while one turned back.

If anyone had looked, they would have seen an aging woman in black, not quite so round as she once had been, open the door for the visitors and usher them into dim apartments where heavy curtains were drawn against the rose and gold of the low summer sun. They would have seen the pair emerge half an hour later, gripping one another's hands rather desperately as they hurried away down the lane.

If anyone had looked, they would have seen the house grow dark with the sunset, no lamp or candle lit to keep the dark at bay.

But no one could bear to look, so no one did.


	9. Chapter 9: Sacred to the Memory

Content warning: grief

Author's Note:

Thanks again to all who have read and reviewed! Writing this is difficult but also extremely satisfying, and just knowing that anyone is reading lifts my spirits tremendously.

I changed the POV in these past few chapters in order to give a bit of relief from Gilbert's inner thoughts. One more Avonlea chapter to go and then we'll move along a bit.

* * *

Chapter 9: Sacred to the Memory

* * *

Cora Blythe poured steaming cups of tea for the three quiet young people seated at her kitchen table. She had expected them to return from their visits worn out, but it troubled her to see that even the placid Reverend Blake had a rather grim set to his jaw. Things must be as bad as ever at Green Gables. Cora resolved to go herself before the week was out, though the prospect made her belly feel hollow.

"Thank you, Mrs. Blythe," murmured Jo as she passed him a cup.

Cora poured tea for herself, and for John as well, who came in from the yard and took the chair next to Gilbert.

"Will you be leaving on the morning train, Rev. Blake?" asked Cora.

 _If only she could get them talking again_ . . .

"Yes. We're sorry to go so soon, but we must be back in Kingsport for prayer meeting on Thursday."

"Of course. Tell me, Mrs. Blake, how are you getting along in setting up housekeeping?" Cora barreled along, deciding that the best course of action was to spur the conversation on until they took the reins.

Phil blinked slowly and gave a tiny shake of her curls, as if rousing herself from sleep.

"As well as could be expected, Mrs. Blythe."

 _You'll have to do better than that, my girl._

"I remember my first month of housekeeping here in Avonlea," Cora said. "I was so keen to have everything exactly right. Do you know what happened? It was the rainiest June the Island ever saw. Mud everywhere — that thick, red mud from the roads that gets into everything. It rained so much I couldn't hang the wash out to dry, so instead of setting up my tidy little sitting room just as I had imagined, I had to string the clothesline through and hang up all our sheets and stockings there. I was mortified, but John only laughed and said he'd just as well take tea in the kitchen."

John Blythe chuckled and gave his wife an encouraging little nod. Phil managed a wan smile and sighed.

"There are so many things to learn and I'm learning quick as I can. I don't want to ask any of the ladies of the church for help, for fear I would shock them with my ignorance."

"Surely they wouldn't mind lending a hand?" smiled Cora.

"Oh, I'm sure they'd relish it," Phil winced. "I've heard enough opinions about women with B.A.s being poor housekeepers, and that's without giving them a chance to find the evidence by going through my bread box and scrap pail."*

Jo put an arm around the back of Phil's chair. "Luckily, we're new enough that we're still being invited out among the congregation. The people of Patterson Street are poor, but they've welcomed us into their homes with open arms."

Phil nodded emphatically.

"It's amazing to see what the ladies can cook, even without much in the way of funds. Plain food, but ever so tasty! I've been going home to Mount Holly on Fridays and getting lessons from Mrs. Weston — she's the cook — and I've almost mastered the art of pork of chops. Vegetables remain a mystery, but I expect I'll bring them to heel in time. And Jo is such a dear. He just eats whatever I serve."

"There was that one time, with the fish . . ." interjected Jo, a slow smile creeping into the corner of his wide mouth.

"Yes, yes." Phil cut him off. "But I know how to use the can opener now, and I never make the same mistake twice, so let us not speak of it."

John laughed at this and Cora began to relax.

"Well, dear, you must take home some of our spiced apple preserves for your jam closet," she said with decision. "And I'll send you more after harvest."

"That's awful nice of you, Mrs. Blythe. I wouldn't be afraid to have people over to tea if I knew I had something nice to serve them. I _can_ make nice, fluffy biscuits, though. Anne taught me."

A strangled silence blossomed on the tabletop, pushing the speakers away from one another. Cora felt it spread, and girded herself for battle.

"I can see how Anne would have sympathized with your plight, dear," she said evenly. "She had an awful time learning to bake herself. Always getting into one sort of scrape or another."

"Did you ever hear the story of Professor Richardson's retirement party?" inquired Phil, a merry gleam overcoming the sparkle of tears in her soft, brown eyes. "He retired from the English department last May. Anne was quite fond of him, so she rallied a bunch of the arts students to throw him a little party. That was when she was teaching me to bake, so she let me help her with some of the eats. I made a whole platter of the most darling little sugar cookies, and Anne frosted them beautifully. Then we made one big one and iced _Best Wishes_ on it."

"Did Professor Richardson enjoy it?" asked John, egging Phil on.

"The poor man never got so much as a whiff! When we carried the refreshments to the reception room Anne had reserved, we found that a crew of workmen had torn up all the carpets. The roof had leaked and the room was a fright. But it was lovely day, so Anne just laughed and said we'd set things up on the lawn outside the department instead."

"Don't tell us," smiled Cora. "Someone threw a football into the table?"

"Nope."

"You got caught in a thundershower?" guessed John.

"You'll never guess in a hundred years."

"The college president walked by and swiped it?" offered Jo.

Phil giggled. "We put all the goodies out on one table and then began to set up a few chairs. As soon as we stepped away from the table, the biggest squirrel you ever saw hopped right up and scooped the _Best Wishes_ cookie. Before I could say _boo_ , it was off running, and Anne chasing after. It shot right up a tree, still holding the thing in its mouth. I was half sure Anne was going to follow it right into the branches!"

The kitchen erupted into general laughter. Even Gilbert managed a weak smile.

"That reminds me of the first time I met Anne," said John, still chortling. "It was right after we came back to Avonlea. Maybe even the first day back."

Gilbert raised his eyebrows, surprised to hear that there was anything about that day he didn't know already.

"Yes, the first day you were back in school, Gil. I was up in an apple tree and my ladder fell. So there I was, stuck in a tree, when this little girl with the reddest hair I'd ever seen appeared out of nowhere. She fetched my ladder for me and we chatted a bit. When you came home and told me about the slate, I could picture it perfectly."

"Anne did love trees," chuckled Cora. "One day, when Gilbert was teaching at White Sands, an errand took me past the Avonlea schoolhouse. Imagine my surprise when I looked up into Mr. Bell's spruce grove and saw the whole class up in the trees, Anne right in the thick of things."

"You never knew where you'd run across the scholars in those days," John agreed. "One day, Anne had them down to the shore to recite 'Charge of the Light Brigade.' When she was finished, she made little Paul Irving hop up and try. The poor boy had to shout above the waves just to be heard. Though, come to think of it, maybe that was the point."

"Anne was wonderful with recitations and speeches," said Jo. "Did you know that she picked my candidate text for me, and helped me revise the sermon?"

"What was your candidate text, Rev. Blake?" Cora asked.

"I couldn't decide between three. And Phil was no help at choosing."

"Certainly not!" laughed Phil.

"I read all three to Anne, and she decided right off. Matthew 6:14."

Cora smiled wistfully. "She would choose Matthew, wouldn't she?"

"I understand that it was one of Marilla's standbys when Anne was a girl and always getting into mischief. It's a wonderful text for a congregation that is not always at peace with itself: _For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you_."

No one knew quite how to follow that. Jo's story settled among them as a benediction, and their jovial camaraderie dissolved into thoughtful silence.

It was not Cora who broke the spell, but Phil.

"Gilbert," she said, startling him, "you must come see us often when you return to Kingsport."

"Kingsport," he repeated blankly.

"Yes. You'll come to Sunday dinners. I can't promise you food worth eating, but the the company will be first rate."

Gilbert did not answer. Cora watched his face, still and vacant, and felt her heart breaking.

"That sounds lovely, dear," she interjected, smiling kindly at Phil.

"Yes, thank you, Phil," muttered Gilbert, prompted into something approaching manners.

"That reminds me," said Cora, who was not in the least forgetful. "I've had a letter from Uncle Dave and Aunt Katherine in Glen St. Mary. Gilbert, they've invited you out to stay with them for a few weeks before term begins."

"You used to love a summer up at the Glen when you were a boy," added John, trying to help.

Gilbert looked up into his mother's face, making eye contact for the first time that evening. She held his gaze, willing him to recognize the chance they were offering him.

But the hazel eyes that were so like her own were dull and glassy. They did not spark with understanding nor anticipation. Cora, who had seen her son's beloved face in every mood from stormy temper to giddy joy to dismal heartache, quailed to find there only apathy.

"I'll think about it," he whispered, looking away.

* * *

On Thursday evening, Gilbert dragged himself up the hill overlooking the Lake of Shining Waters. Of all the routes he had traveled in the past month, this was one he had avoided as assiduously as if it had been paved with broken glass. He clutched a bouquet of wildflowers in his fist, his grip tightening with every step he took toward the little Avonlea graveyard among the poplars. The only mercy was that he met no one on the road.

He had met her there so often, walking her home after she had brought offerings to Matthew and Hester Gray. Those were quiet walks, but not always sad. Visiting tended to make her wistful, and she would sometimes let him peek into her memories, of how Matthew had once brought her chocolate caramels, or how she had loved little Katie Maurice in the bookcase. There was rarely any need for him to speak. He would listen, and press a reassuring hand over hers, and be rewarded with a sweet, tremulous, trusting smile.

Gilbert knew that Marilla had buried her beside Matthew. He had tried to avoid thinking of her grave at all, but it did give him some comfort to think of them together. He could picture Matthew's grave clearly. Marilla had certainly been responsible for choosing the upright stone of gray shale, unadorned but for Matthew's name and dates of birth and death. But, behind the stone, loving hands had planted a bush of white Scotch roses, offshoots of the plant that Mrs. Cuthbert had brought out from Scotland so many decades ago. How strange that two memorials should speak so eloquently of the mourners themselves, and their own ways of loving the dead.

At the gate, Gilbert paused and closed his eyes. He had hoped that a prayer would come, but the only words that presented themselves were his mother's.

 _There's no right way to do this. There's no wrong way to do this._

This did not still the desperate flutter in his chest. But it did give him the strength to walk through the gate.

He saw it immediately. With leaden steps, he approached, then dropped to his knees on turned sod that was just beginning to sprout new grass.

The stone Diana had selected was a handsome slab of white marble, framed with architectural details that reminded Gilbert of a fairytale castle. New and clean, it fairly sparkled among the lichen-mellowed monuments of crisp gray shale and homey red-brown sandstone. That was well enough; it should stand out, shouldn't it?

Beneath the marble turrets, a carved garland of flowers draped over her name. Gilbert wasn't sure he liked that; stone flowers seemed a sacrilege. But, on reflection, it meant that she would always have blossoms, even in the winter. Under other circumstances, he would have smiled at Diana's sensibilities: romantic enough to choose perpetual flowers; limited enough to overlook the paradox of flowers that had never sprouted, never swayed in the breeze, never known a bee.

"This is very Diana," Gilbert muttered, not entirely insensible to the irony. In truth, he was grateful. Diana had performed a necessary task as well as anyone could. Certainly far better than he.

And what would he have chosen if he could? Could anything made of stone truly honor her? She was sky and forest, blossom and fancy. If she had a physical monument, it would have to have been something that grew, and changed, and lived. Even her writing, precious as it was, was only the reflection of her dancing imagination. She should have written living epistles, and walked the earth immortal in the bodies of her children.**

Gilbert placed his wildflowers at the base of the marble marker, then blinked and cleared his throat. "I . . . I hardly know what to say," he began. "I ought to be able to speak, but I fear that Redmond would be quite ashamed of me at the moment."

He paused, feeling self-conscious, and looked back toward the gate to be sure he was alone.

"Anne . . ."

The quiet syllable seemed torn from him. His voice cracked and he gulped several shuddering sobs, hoping to contain them. Unable, he spoke through them instead.

"I'm . . . . so . . . sorry . . . for everything . . . for Timothy . . . and not telling you . . . I meant . . . to keep you safe but . . . I was so selfish . . . and then I stayed away . . . so long . . . I could _kill_ Mrs. Lynde . . . . I should have knocked her down or . . . broken in . . . and I'm sorry . . . for being distant . . . these past months . . . I thought I was working . . . for us . . . for you . . . and now it's all gone . . . and I should have . . . spent every second . . . with you . . . we should have eloped and . . ."

He doubled over, fingers gripping the back of his head, white knuckled, weeping.

It was several minutes before he could speak again. When he did, his voice was flat, if not precisely calm.

"I'm going away now. To Glen St. Mary. I might have been able to resist Mother, but now she has Phil and Jo on her side. And after that . . . I don't know. They want me to go to medical school. But I don't know. It just doesn't seem to matter anymore."

He knuckled away a few straggling tears, blew out shaky breath.

"I don't know when I'll be back. But wherever I am, I'm yours."

* * *

*Recall that Rachel Lynde did exactly this when she visited Anne for Christmas in _Anne's House of Dreams_.

** "Living epistles" from _Anne of Ingleside_ ; "Redmond would be ashamed of you" from _Anne's House of Dreams_.


	10. Chapter 10: Glen St Mary

Content warning: grief, anxiety, minor injury (in a medical context)

* * *

Chapter 10: Glen St. Mary

* * *

On Friday afternoon, Gilbert stepped off the train onto the sunny platform at Glen St. Mary. He had hardly alighted before he was engulfed in Aunt Katherine's blue moire embrace. Her welcome was so effusive and so unceasing that there was no need for Gilbert to say anything at all. Uncle Dave, a kindly, older gentleman with a voluminous mustache, clapped his great-nephew heartily on the back before setting out in search of his luggage.

A quarter of an hour later, all three were settled in the buggy, jogging along the red roads that skirted Four Winds Harbor. For the first time in a long time, Gilbert felt the tiniest flicker of interest in his surroundings. The harbor was certainly beautiful, an opalescent mirror stretching serenely out to the sand bar and the mighty Atlantic beyond. As they drove, he could see a picturesque lighthouse down at the point, standing guardian over the tumble of jagged rocks that stretched out to sea. Further on, they passed tidy orchards and rose-laden arbors. A close-growing stand of maples guarded a cheerful little valley, revealing only a brief glimmer of the burbling brook at its heart.

As the buggy crested a hill topped by several magnificent old trees, the landscape opened out in both directions. Behind, the harbor road sloped gently down to the shore and Four Winds Point; before, the village of Glen St. Mary nestled snugly among green hollows and pleasant stands of spruce and oak.

 _She would have gloried in this vista_ , Gilbert thought with a pang.

 _No. Stop it. She never saw this view and she never will. Stop torturing yourself._

They rode on through the Glen, Aunt Katherine chatting lightly, naming the houses and shops to either side. Uncle Dave and Aunt Katherine lived in a comfortable blue house at the end of the Glen street, just past the schoolhouse. They had never had any children, but their home was generally raucous with various comings and goings. Gilbert had spent several happy summers there as a boy. As the buggy pulled into the yard, the sight of the grasshopper weathervane topping the highest turret brought back memories of one particularly eventful visit featuring his cousin Andrew, an ill-advised dare, and an unusually large codfish. He nearly smiled.

The remainder of the afternoon passed in a flurry of unpacking. Gilbert was not overburdened with worldly possessions, having left most of his books in Kingsport. Still, Aunt Katherine fussed and hovered, hanging each shirt in the spare room armoire with an air of ceremony. If she wondered why he wore a blue tie, rather than mourning black, she made no attempt to satisfy her curiosity. Gilbert gave her free rein until she reached for a green-and-white striped hatbox at the bottom of the trunk.

"Thanks, Aunt Katherine. I'll take that one," he said, with an approximation of calm.

"Of course, dear." She smiled sweetly. "Why don't you take some time to settle yourself?"

She swept out, leaving Gilbert alone. He sank onto the bed with a sigh. Aunt Katherine really was a duck, but it had been a long day. He regarded the hatbox for a moment before resolving not to open it. Not now. He needed to rally his strength for a social evening, not indulge his sorrow. He crossed the room and stashed the box safely atop the armoire. _Another time_ , he promised himself. For now, he needed a distraction. Drawing _Treasure Island_ from his coat pocket, he flopped across the bed like the schoolboy he had been not so very long ago and lost himself in the tale.

* * *

When Gilbert was "settled," the housekeeper, Mrs. MacAllister, laid out a sumptuous supper that even a hale and hearty visitor would have struggled to appreciate to its full extent. Gilbert did his best, taking what was offered to him, even if it did tend to collect on his plate.

"I've been thinking," said Uncle Dave, leaning back from the table after a second slice of pie, "that you might be interested in tagging along with me these next few days, Gil."

"Tagging along?"

"Yes. Patients come to see me here in my office and I make rounds to check on those who can't. It would give you a real first-rate experience, seeing what a doctor does up close. None of these over-complicated medical texts or pen-and-paper exams. In my day, we learned by apprenticeship. I read a bit, sure, but I got my real medical education from old Doc Crawford, and he was right when he said that experience is the best teacher."

In spite of himself, Gilbert felt a tiny tug of excitement. He tamped it down immediately, feeling somehow disloyal to his grief. But it did not fade completely.

"I'd like that."

"Excellent! Patients generally start turning up at the door about halfway through my morning shave, so let's plan on beginning around eight."

* * *

The next morning, Gilbert woke to the realization that he had slept through the night. It was still early, perhaps half an hour before dawn, but a deep and dreamless sleep had left him feeling unexpectedly refreshed.

He had stayed up late the night before, letting Uncle Dave and Aunt Katherine inundate him with stories of the Glen and its inhabitants. There had been no need to participate. All he had to do was nod from time to time and accept refills of tea at decent intervals. At ten o'clock, he had gone heavy-eyed to the spare room and fallen asleep at once.

Now, Gilbert lay awake, wondering about the day ahead. He had read plenty of erudite medical texts, but Uncle Dave's words about the value of experience had had the ring of truth to them. Books were well and good, but they could never stand in for flesh and blood. What would it be like to see actual patients? He tried to imagine.

With heart-stopping suddenness, the blue-papered walls of Aunt Katherine's spare room fell away and he was back in the little white room over the porch at Green Gables. The scent of sickness filled the air, despite the open windows. It was hot, so hot, and nothing could bring down the temperature. A roar, as of a heavy train, passing much, much too close . . .

Gasping.

 _Find an anchor._

Hatbox above the armoire.

 _Bad choice._

The wardrobe itself, then. It was tall. _No, be more precise_. It was slightly shorter than himself, making it 180 centimeters, maybe 182. Dark wood, but not mahogany. Cherry. Yes, that was it. With some brass drawer pulls, no, six brass drawer pulls on three drawers of graduated size . . .

The specificity of this exercise focused his mind. Find something real. Fill your mind with the details of its reality. It seemed stupid, yes, but soon Gilbert's breathing came back under his control. His hands relaxed. When he could, he rolled to the edge of the bed and reached for the towel hanging from the washstand. _Steady now_. He mopped his face and lay back again.

 _How are you ever going to get through this day?_

 _How are you ever going to be a doctor?_

* * *

At seven, an outwardly composed Gilbert dressed and went down to breakfast; at eight Uncle Dave unlocked the side entrance that opened into his office and ushered in his first patient.

There was nothing wrong with little Mary Anna Reese that a vigorous burping wouldn't cure, but Uncle Dave had a difficult time convincing Mrs. Donald Reese of that.

"Mary Anna is a very clever child," protested Mrs. Donald. "She just knows when something is wrong and she _tells_ me!"

Uncle Dave contrived to roll his eyes at Gilbert under cover of checking Mary Anna, who could not have been more than four months old. The baby blinked placidly, communicating only quiet resignation.

In the end, Uncle Dave sent Mrs. Reese away with instructions to give Mary Anna three drops of mint water, morning and evening, which seemed to satisfy her.

When the door had swung shut behind her, Uncle Dave slumped into his chair and rubbed his temples. "I hardly know whether to record that visit in Mary Anna's file or Mrs. Donald's," he muttered.

"Will mint water do anything for a colicky baby?" Gilbert asked skeptically.

"Not a thing except give the mother something to do," answered Uncle Dave. "Ask her in a week and she'll swear an oath that Mary Anna has improved tremendously under her tender ministrations."

Gilbert felt the corner of his mouth begin to twitch. "Surely that isn't quite ethical, is it?"

"Perhaps not, perhaps not. But she's been in here twice a week since the poor child was born, always finding something amiss. And all the time that baby's been about as delicate as a turnip."

The morning passed pleasantly enough. The Murray children had sore throats, but weren't seriously ill; James Millison came to have a boil lanced; Mr. Abner Meade needed his arthritic hands checked. Gilbert felt a strange sort of longing as he watched Uncle Dave work over the elderly man's hands, pressing here, massaging there, leaving him with a receipt for camphor balm and look of sweet relief on his face. Gilbert doubted that anyone could learn to do that in a lecture hall.

Near noon, there was even a spot of excitement. Billy Carter had been fishing at the Glen pond with his schoolmates and managed to stick a fish hook through the web of his left hand. No one would say exactly how he had done it, though the guilty looks that passed among the boys under Uncle Dave's stern eye spoke plainly of mischief. No matter; the hook must come out , whatever its history. Gilbert helped hold Billy as Uncle Dave attempted to clip the barb, but, in the end, they had to file it down and draw it back through the wound.

"Watch where you set your bait!" Uncle Dave shouted to the boys as they scampered away. To Gilbert, he sighed. "Let's find some dinner."

* * *

In the afternoon, they made house calls. Standing on the veranda of the first house, Gilbert felt his stomach drop dangerously, but a few deliberate breaths calmed him.

It wasn't so bad. The Douglas children had been quarantined with chicken pox for two weeks and their mother was nearly driven to distraction.

"As soon as one starts to get better, the next one breaks out in a rash," she moaned as her little ones, speckled but energetic, capered around the sitting room.

"Now, now, Mrs. Douglas," Uncle Dave soothed. "All six of them have got it now, and they're all over the worst. Miller's the last of them, and his spots are already starting to scab over. You can send the older children back to school soon."

"When?" she pleaded.

"I'll come back on Tuesday. If they continue to mend as they have, they can go to school Wednesday."

"Thank you, Doctor Dave," sighed Mrs. Douglas, taking the bottle of calamine lotion he handed her.

The next call was quieter. Gilbert felt a pang as they approached; the little white house down the harbor road had the sweetest garden, and a cunning little gate hung between two firs. He admired the double line of Lombardy poplars that shaded their walk up the lane, and thought, with a clenching of his stomach, how nice and homey the place felt.

A trained nurse opened the door and ushered them into a spare, scrubbed hall with clean pine board floors and an old-fashioned table opposite the stairs. Other houses in Glen St. Mary were cluttered with plush carpets and dark furniture set with beveled mirrors, but this house had a fresh, clean-swept feeling that set Gilbert's heart thumping in his chest. He half expected Marilla Cuthbert to emerge from the kitchen.

It was not Marilla in the big white bed upstairs, but Miss Elizabeth Russell. She was a tiny woman with enormous brown eyes and a puff of snow-white hair pulled into a soft knot at the top of her head. Her piquant little mouth seemed always on the verge of laughter, even as she struggled to sit up in bed.

"Don't you trouble yourself for me, Miss Russell," teased Uncle Dave.

"I wouldn't, Doctor Dave. But it's not every day some old codger drags a handsome young man into my bedroom."

Gilbert put on a smile and stepped forward, taking the soft little hand in his own. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Russell. I'm Gilbert Blythe."

Miss Russell blushed prettily. "Such a nice young fellow. I understand you're to be a doctor?"

Gilbert swallowed, feigning certainty he did not feel. "Yes, ma'am. I start medical school next month."

She gave him a warm smile that reached all the way to her eyes. "You'll do splendidly, I'm sure. Why, I feel quite better already!"

Uncle Dave clucked impatiently and set to examining Miss Russell's pulse and other vital signs. She had suffered several episodes of fainting over the past few weeks, but seemed to be on the mend.

"You just rest easy, and let the nurse do her job," Uncle Dave scolded.

Miss Russell pouted. "Oh, she's very good at her job. Efficient as a pocket watch. But she isn't a bit sympathetic." This last came out as a conspiratorial whisper, directed as much to Gilbert as to Uncle Dave. "My sheets are always perfectly clean and my gruel just exactly the right temperature, but I do wish she'd bring me flowers from my garden every now and then. I do miss them so."

Something frantic squirmed in Gilbert's gut, but he made reply lightly enough. "May I fetch you some flowers, Miss Russell? I'd be glad to do you a service."

She beamed. "Sweet lad. You're of the race that knows Joseph, as Cornelia Bryant would say. I can always tell."

Gilbert wasn't quite sure what to say to that, but took his leave and headed for the garden. Kitchen shears in hand, he wandered the flower-crowded paths. Late roses bowed the bushes with their heavy, crimson heads, but Gilbert passed them by. They were too much for the airy sickroom and its spritely inhabitant. Instead, he went down to the little brook that cut across the far corner of the garden and gathered the sort of flowers that sometimes grow in gardens, even as they dream of sunswept fields and secret places by the woods. Cornflowers and cosmos, larkspur and black-eyed susans, a riot of color without order or theme. Gilbert added a few bright yellow day lilies for splash and looked critically at the result. It was exactly right for . . .

 _No_.

How she would have loved . . .

 _No_.

It was as if a charged wire had been laid around part of his brain. Get too close and _zap_. It hurt excruciatingly to recoil at that new-set boundary, to be held separate not just in reality, but in thought as well. But the barrier was there, and perhaps that was for the best. Useful, at least, if it could help him walk through the world without collapsing.

Feeling slightly nauseous, Gilbert turned back to bring Miss Russell her flowers. Her delight at the exuberant bouquet chased away some of his lingering jitters.

"Exactly right! Well done, my lad. I'm sure I shall get better faster with such flowers by my side."

Gilbert set the blooms in a vase on the bedside table, moving aside a pair of spectacles and a stack of novels.

"Oh, give those here," chirped Miss Russell. "I'm working my way through the Brontës again, but just now I've got a delicious little yellow-covered novel full of gore and forbidden love. I put it at the bottom of the pile for appearances, but I won't be satisfied until I know who's done the murder."

"Rest, Miss Russell," admonished Uncle Dave, not unkindly. "Don't go exciting yourself so much you can't sleep."

Miss Russell arranged her features into the semblance of docility, but a wicked sparkle in the depths of her soft brown eyes made Gilbert feel quite sure that she would do exactly as she wished.

"She's a sweet old thing," Uncle Dave commented as he and Gilbert climbed back into the buggy at the bottom of the lane.

"Is it her heart that troubles her?" Gilbert asked.

"Not especially. Just age, and pushing herself to do more than she ought. You'd think a little old lady, all alone, could find time to sit and rest a spell every now and again, but that never was Elizabeth Russell's way."

"Maybe she just needs more novels," said Gilbert, smiling inwardly.

"Novels indeed. As if Elizabeth Russell ever needed more queer notions."

Gilbert decided that he liked Miss Elizabeth Russell, and resolved to visit her whenever he could find an excuse.

* * *

As they neared the next stop, Uncle Dave's face turned suddenly grave. He gave Gilbert an appraising look, then heaved a sigh.

"Gil, I'm not entirely sure about this next one. You can stay with the buggy if you like."

Gilbert felt cold fingers creep up his spine at this pronouncement, but choked out a reply. "What is the case?"

"Mrs. Amy Elliott. She's 37 years old, and she's dying. Cancer of the breast. Nothing to be done. Her mother's come from over harbor to tend her and the children have been sent away, but it's a sad case and no hope at all."

Gilbert set his jaw and swallowed.

"That's . . . part of the job, isn't it? Caring for the dying."

Uncle Dave nodded. "It is. But you aren't a doctor yet, Gil. And you don't have to come in if you don't want to."

Something in his tone irked Gilbert. He might have accepted solicitude from his mother, or Phil, or even Aunt Katherine, but he was vaguely embarrassed to have Uncle Dave doubt him. Was he afraid of being thought unmanly? Or was it his nascent professional pride that was bruised? In either case, he stuck out his chin and answered with more assurance than he felt.

"I'll come, Uncle Dave. I need to see it all."

Uncle Dave looked askance at his nephew, but did not contradict him.

At the Elliott house, all was quiet. Not the prim, friendly, quiet of Miss Russell's house, but a burdensome, insidious silence that clung to the drapes like the ghosts of the absent children. A hollow-eyed, gray-haired woman led Uncle Dave and Gilbert up the carpeted stairs and showed them into the shadowy recesses of a dim bedroom.

Gilbert took a single step over the threshold and froze. He never even saw Amy Elliott, but he heard her soft, thick breathing. Without a word, he turned on his heel and fled.


	11. Chapter 11: The Race That Knows Joseph

Content Warning: grief, anxiety

* * *

Chapter 11: The Race That Knows Joseph

* * *

A quarter of an hour later, Gilbert was still retching in the bushes in Amy Elliott's untended garden.

When he had finished, he sat down heavily on the mossy path.

 _Damn_. Gilbert rarely swore, and never aloud. His mother's wrath had instilled a memorable lesson the first day he had brought home one of Tommy Sloane's choicest phrases from Avonlea school. But he swore bitterly now, if only to himself.

 _Damn. Damn. Damn._

Wasn't it enough for her to die? To go and leave him here, alone? Did she have to take _everything_ with her? Not three months ago, he had been on top of the world, the conquering graduate, the Cooper Prize winner, the future husband, future father, future doctor. All gone. He might never be able to go home again. He might never return to school. He couldn't even imagine how he would make it through a single medical school lecture, let alone become a doctor. And as for the rest . . .

 _How could she do this to me?_

Gilbert pounded a fist against the path beside him, again and again.

 _How could she?_

As the question formed again, all his wrath dissolved into hot tears. His taut shoulders went slack and he leaned forward to avoid collapsing entirely.

 _Damn. This is the stupidest thing yet. You can't blame someone for dying._

Before, when they were separated because of stubbornness and misunderstanding, Gilbert had been angry. He knew, even at the time, that anger was only the self-protective facet of his grief. What a small and petty grief that had been, fueled by coals of jealousy over Roy, of wounded pride over her refusal, of self-reproach over having scared her away. Now, those same unworthy feelings of blame and bitterness had come creeping back in. Gilbert was ashamed.

 _I'm so sorry._

In that moment, Gilbert felt his loneliness as an unfathomable pit at the very center of his being. She was gone. It made no sense, but there it was. Her absence was a chasm, a formless, beckoning nothingness that drew him inexorably toward itself. Any slight push, from any quarter, could send him plunging. He almost wished for the anger to return. At least anger was alive and fighting. Better that then this feeble, powerless dread.

Quite unexpectedly, Gilbert thought of Mrs. Donald Reese. All her fretting over little Mary Anna had seemed a good joke that morning. But had he stopped to wonder _why_ she was so anxious? Why every little cough or hiccup sent her racing for the doctor? Mary Anna's robust good health was as nothing to the dangers she imagined. Had she lost a baby before?

Gilbert groaned. Was _that_ his future? But no; even Mrs. Donald didn't go running from rooms, nor ruining the plantings when she got a shock.

 _As far as I know._

It was a simple thought, but in his depleted state, it struck him with the force of revelation. Was it ever possible to truly know what other people felt? In his arrogance of youth and intelligence and vigor, he had always thought that he was different. She had been different, too. It was what made them perfect for one another. They wanted more than the others, knew more, lived more, felt more.

Or did they? Did plodding, fussing Mrs. Donald Reese have a pit in her heart as well?

* * *

Within the hour, Uncle Dave came to collect Gilbert. They drove home in silence, neither knowing how to reassure the other. Supper that night was a dreary affair. Aunt Katherine did her level best to draw Gilbert out with questions about the patients and their troubles, but his morose answers soon discouraged her. It was not yet dark when he excused himself and locked the spare room door behind him.

Gilbert collapsed onto the bed. He felt weak and shaky in the aftermath of his attack at Amy Elliott's, and it was a relief not to expend physical and mental energy keeping his body upright. He stared up at the plaster ceiling, tracing a hairline crack from one corner of the room to the other.

 _This can't go on._

He snorted aloud. Any resolution implied that he had control over himself, which he patently did not.

 _Emotions are just feelings. You should be able to master them._

Self-control had been one of the first lessons he had been taught at home, at church, in school: an honorable man is unfailingly disciplined in thought and deed. A difficult lesson for some, but it aligned with Gilbert's nature. All his life, he had been as dextrous with emotions as with his fingers. He could charm with a smile, deflect or attract attention with a jest. He knew when to press an argument and when to pull it back, either to lure in an opponent or, in certain cases, to avoid victory at the cost of hurt feelings. Even during the long years of patient, hopeful waiting, he had disciplined himself. Never asking too much, nor revealing too much, stepping back when she shied away. He was a gentleman; courteous in victory, gracious in defeat, and always, _always_ in control.

Well, perhaps not _always_. There had been those few times when fear or desperation had overridden his better judgment. That reckless proposal. Their night in the hurricane. The terrible decision to keep what he knew secret. He had always wanted to be his best self around her, but too often discovered the limits of his self-discipline in her presence.

Now, it was as though he had no boundaries at all. Instead of being in command of brain and body, he felt himself bleeding into everything around him, blown by fickle winds.

 _This can't go on._

Could it? Would he be like this forever?

Gilbert circled around and around, resolving nothing. He felt tired and sick and ashamed of himself. Could he really be this weak? It was humiliating.

When he thought he could feel no worse, his eye fell on the striped hatbox atop the armoire. Grief stretched out eager tendrils, propelling him to take it down, bring it to his bed.

With dread deliberation, Gilbert lifted the lid.

There were her journals, her notebooks, every letter she had ever written him. He ran his fingers down the spines, caressed the corners of the envelopes. There were a few photographs, not many, but incalculably precious. He stared for a long while at the photo of the two of them in their graduation robes, grinning in triumph. How long had it been since that day? Not three months. Inconceivable.

Ever so gently, Gilbert lifted a square of delicate linen from among the papers. He rubbed the green embroidered border between his fingers, lingering over the initials. _AS_. How many years had it been since he had conveniently forgotten to return it? Without overthinking the impulse, he slipped the handkerchief into his waistcoat pocket.

Looking back into the box, he found a little enamel snuffbox decorated with violets. It fit the palm of his hand as if it had grown there. The tiny golden clasp released, revealing a single bright curl of hair. Gilbert shut it again, shut his eyes, tried to shut down. But it was too late now. He was well beyond the barrier and could do nothing but give in. In agony, he curled his body around the hatbox and let himself fall.

* * *

The next day was Sunday. Gilbert declined Aunt Katherine's invitation to attend church and spent the day in bed.

Early Monday morning, Uncle Dave was called away to a birth over harbor, so there would be no office hours that day. Just as well.

Gilbert might not have been able to drag himself out of bed for his own sake, but a lifetime of training in gentlemanly comportment prodded his conscience on Aunt Katherine's behalf. She had gone out of her way to make him feel welcome; he mustn't rebuff her kindness. Besides, Gilbert had the uneasy suspicion that a dire letter was even now flying through the mail to Cora Blythe. He shaved and dressed, devising a plan that would let him leave the house without a chaperone.

Gilbert found Aunt Katherine lingering over the breakfast table, a stack of letters beside her.

"Gilbert! I'm so glad to see you up! Can I get you some toast? Eggs? Mrs. MacAllister!"

"Thanks, Aunt Katherine. Just some tea, I think."

A steaming cup appeared before him almost before he had finished speaking. He sipped slowly, casting about for something to say.

"Any news?" he asked, inclining his head toward the pile of letters.

"Not to speak of. There's one for you, from your mother by the look of it."

Gilbert manufactured a pleasant expression and slipped the letter into his pocket, unopened.

"I was thinking," he said, "that I might go down to the shore this morning, since Uncle Dave is out. I'd like to see the harbor. And I mean to call on Miss Elizabeth Russell if she's feeling well enough. I can report back to Uncle Dave on how she is getting along."

Aunt Katherine beamed. "That sounds lovely, Gil. Shall I pack you a picnic hamper?"

"No need to trouble yourself," he assured her. "Perhaps just some bread and cheese I can carry in my satchel?"

This demurral went unheeded. Minutes later, Gilbert found himself outside on the veranda, carrying both his own satchel and a large haversack stuffed to bursting with sweets and savories. There seemed to be nothing to do but accept.

Thus burdened, he made his way through the Glen street and down the harbour road. It really was one of the prettiest roads he had ever walked, if he had had eyes to see it. Gilbert bypassed the little side road that would have taken him to Miss Elizabeth Russell's house and set his feet for Four Winds Point. The harbor was beautiful, calm and shimmering, but he needed waves.

Out past the lighthouse, the rock shore tumbled brokenly from red sandstone cliffs into the sea. Great plumes of spray shot up over the low-lying formations, then gurgled back through hidden passages to their source. The gray Atlantic stretched out before him to an indistinct horizon, sea and sky meeting in a smoky smudge. Gilbert settled himself on a large, flat rock at the bottom of a scree slope and let the roar of the surf obliterate all conscious thought.

He sat a long while. When consciousness threatened to reassert itself, he picked a pebble from the pile behind him and flung it at a driftwood log farther down the slope. It hit with a disconsolate thunk, leaving a small scar in the wood. Gilbert found another rock and attempted to hit the mark left by the first, but missed by two hands' breadth. A second attempt came closer. By the end of the first hundred, he was able to hit the scar every other try.

* * *

The sun was high in the sky when Gilbert rose and stretched. He did not feel better, but he had passed a morning without feeling worse, and decided to count it a victory.

On the eastern side of the lighthouse, the shore mellowed into a pebbly crescent sheltered from the rougher surf. Gilbert walked it aimlessly. He had not gone far when he spied a man struggling to bring a dory in for a landing along the beach. The little boat was riding low in the water and the man had leapt out into the knee-deep waves to guide it.

Gilbert dropped his bags and shed his shoes. He hailed the man, who turned surprised but grateful eyes to this unexpected assistance. Wading in, Gilbert realized that the man was far older than he had seemed at a distance. He was tall, if a bit stooped, with long gray hair pulled back in a sailor's queue and clear, blue eyes set deep in his wrinkled face.

Together, the two men hauled the dory up the pebbly shore. A dozen impressive codfish glistened in the bottom of the boat, but it was not their weight that had hindered the little craft. Several inches of water crept up the bilges, betokening a leak somewhere below the waterline. When they had pulled it clear of the water, it scraped heavily, cutting a deep furrow through the pebbles.

"Many thanks, lad!" the old man exclaimed, straightening up and mopping his soaking face. "I thought for a moment I was going to lose her." He gave Gilbert a friendly smile and extended a wizened hand. "I'm Jim Boyd, but everyone calls me Captain Jim."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Gilbert Blythe."

"Blythe? Not Doctor Dave's great-nephew, are you?"

Gilbert grimaced.

"No secrets in a small town, I'm afraid. Miss Cornelia was jest up to the lighthouse last night, wondering why she didn't see you at church. She suspects," he lowered his voice confidentially, "that you may be a _Methodist_."

Gilbert understood by Captain Jim's wink this was something of a joke, at least among Miss Cornelia's friends.

"I wasn't aware that anyone here expected me anywhere," he answered.

"To be sure. Well, I suppose some folks knew that you were coming to stay and then Miss Cornelia is an old crony of Miss Elizabeth Russell's, who, I understand, took something of a shine to you when you visited with your uncle."

"I liked her as well," said Gilbert, finding it surprisingly easy to talk to Captain Jim.

"Ah, yes. The race that knows Joseph, and all that."

"What exactly does that mean?"

"It's just something Cornelia Bryant says. S _he divides all the folks in the world into two kinds — the race that knows Joseph and the race that don't. If a person sorter sees eye to eye with you, and has pretty much the same ideas about things, and the same taste in jokes — why, then he belongs to the race that knows Joseph._ "

"I think I understand," Gilbert replied. "We . . . I . . . well, a friend used to call them 'kindred spirits.'"

" _Jest so — jest so," agreed Captain Jim._ "I can tell already that _we're it, whatever IT is_."

Gilbert found himself nodding. The oppressive mood of the morning had lifted a bit in the old man's presence, and Gilbert felt an inexplicable urge to extend their conversation.

"In that case, you must join me for a meal, Captain Jim. My aunt has overwhelmed me with delicacies and I have no hope of finishing them on my own."

Captain Jim looked surprised, but pleased. "That's mighty friendly of you, Mister Blythe."

They found a dry place to sit farther up the beach. Gilbert unpacked the haversack onto a flat rock, the bounty eliciting several admiring comments from Captain Jim. They ate their way through sandwiches and fruitcake, biscuits and ripe, red raspberries.

"I don't often get such a fine dinner," said Captain Jim, sated. "Your aunt must think quite a lot of your appetite."

Gilbert gave a weak chuckle. "Rather little, I'm afraid."

Captain Jim, who may have known more of Gilbert's history than he let on, took pity on the young man.

"Did you ever hear tell of the old sea _captain who went crazy and imagined he was the Flying Dutchman?_ "

Without waiting for a reply, Captain Jim launched into the story. It was a thrilling tale and he told it superbly. For a little while, Gilbert quite forgot his troubles, carried along on the currents of horror and humor.

"Did the captain ever make it home?" he asked when the story was finished.

"Oh yes. After a while, the mate saw clear enough what was going on and locked him in the brig. It weren't a mutiny, exactly. No fighting. The whole crew knew it had to be done, for the captain's own sake as much as anyone's."

"Did he recover?"

Captain Jim nodded thoughtfully. "He did, in a manner of speaking. He never went to sea again, but he lived out his life quiet enough. Sometimes, out there, alone with nothing but the sea and stars, there's things that seem very real. But when you haul 'em up on shore, they sorter shrink back down to size. That don't mean they aren't real, but they're mebbe only real in their own place."

With that, Captain Jim rose to his feet.

"Thank you kindly, Mister Blythe, for the help and for the dinner. If you like, you could mebbe come back tomorrow and I'll show you how to mend a leak in that old dory."

"I'd like that, Captain Jim," said Gilbert, believing it.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Gilbert walked up the poplar lane to the little white house among the firs. He carried a posy of purple asters, their round, cheerful faces bobbing merrily as he knocked.

The trained nurse looked down her nose at Gilbert, but stepped aside to let him in. He ascended the stairs quietly and knocked at the open bedroom door.

"Mr. Blythe! Come in! Come in!" chirped Miss Elizabeth Russell, setting her book down on the coverlet.

"I thought you might need some fresh flowers," said Gilbert apologetically.

"Indeed I do. Well, this is a lovely surprise. Thank you!"

Gilbert set the asters on the bedside table and took the chair she indicated.

"How did your novel turn out, Miss Russell?"

"Oh, splendidly! I suspected the matron, of course, but never her daughter! I do love a story with a twist at the end."

"I see you've moved on to something weightier," Gilbert said, nodding toward the thick volume open on her lap.

"Yes," Miss Russell sighed. " _Wuthering Heights_. Do you know it?"

Gilbert wrinkled his nose. "Yes, I've read it. Under duress, though, not for pleasure."

"Oh?" Miss Russell was intrigued. "Course work?"

 _Just keep breathing._

"Not exactly. I had a friend who loved it. I read it mostly so that we could argue about it."

* * *

Anne and Gilbert sat on the stone wall of the Old St. John's graveyard. Priss and Phil had gone off walking once the shouting started, rolling their eyes and whispering together as they took their leave.

"Anne," said Gilbert, running a hand through his curls, "all I'm saying is that every character in _Wuthering Heights_ is mad as a hatter. If they're not violently despairing, they're violently declaring their love, or else plotting their revenges. Can't anyone just take a walk to look at the blooming heather without falling into fits of passion over something or other?"

"That's the whole point!" Anne shot back. "It's a novel about the dual nature of emotions. The capacity to love passionately is the capacity to hate passionately or mourn passionately."

"Nobody acts like that, Anne!" Gilbert protested. "Plotting secret marriages, living out vendettas through their children, digging up graves with their bare hands . . . Nobody behaves that way!"

"No, but they might _feel_ that way!" Anne's eyes were blazing, her cheeks flushed, and even if Gilbert had enjoyed _Wuthering Heights_ (which he had not), he would have kept prodding for the pleasure of seeing her so animated.

"Don't you understand?" Anne pleaded, "It's not a notebook of scientific observations, meant to depict the real world. Brontë uses gothic tropes to comment on the possibilities and limitations of the human soul!"

"I think they could have avoided a lot of it if they all sat down and had a nice, honest chat."

"Urggggh! You are so _literal_!" Anne groaned.

"Well, Marianne, when you write a novel about us, you can call it _Literal and Literarily_."

Anne flung an apple at him. Gilbert caught it neatly, grinned, and took a large bite.

"And I suppose that makes you Elinor?" Anne giggled.

"I always have been. Have you only just noticed?"

* * *

"Mr. Blythe?"

Gilbert started. Miss Elizabeth Russell was looking at him with a tender sympathy in her deep brown eyes.

"I'm afraid you went away for a bit there. Wherever did you go?"

Gilbert grimaced. "Just thinking about _Wuthering Heights_ , I suppose."

"Did you win your argument?"

Gilbert managed a wry chuckle. "No, indeed. I didn't have much of a point to make, other than that Heathcliff and the rest of them seemed quite deranged to me."

"I didn't like it either, the first time I read it," Miss Russell agreed. "But I think, as I grow older and more foolish, I have rather more sympathy for Heathcliff than I once did. I read once that Emily Brontë died very young. That seemed remarkable to me, that someone in her twenties should know love and grief so intimately."

Gilbert was saved from replying by the arrival of the nurse with a tea tray. He complimented Miss Russell on her unusual china, a Wedgwood cameo pattern in blue and white.

"These cups were my mother's," she explained. "I never married, so I never had the chance to pick a newer pattern, and I inherited these when she died. She brought them over from England when she was a bride, nearly 100 years ago."

They chatted pleasantly over their tea, Gilbert asking small questions about her family that sent Miss Russell into long stories and explanations. Her merry brown eyes lighted with excitement as she told of her parents and siblings, all long dead, but no less beloved.

After an hour, the nurse returned and gave Gilbert a stern look, by which he understood that his interview with Miss Russell had come to an end.

"May I call on you again, Miss Russell?" Gilbert asked, reflecting that an hour of lighthearted companionship would help to pass the days away.

"Indeed, you must!" replied Miss Russell. "Next time I shall be prepared to feed you up properly."

"May I report to my uncle that you are feeling well?"

"You may. I expect to be up and about by the end of the week."

Gilbert patted her hand. "No need to rush, Miss Russell. Give yourself time to grow strong."

* * *

 _30 July 1887_

 _Dear Gilbert,_

 _It has been a sunny week in Avonlea, so your father has begun cutting marsh hay for the winter. Davy Keith is helping him, though he is still staying with the Harrisons. Davy is doing well and works hard. Your father says that he is a born farmer._

 _We hear from Fred Wright that Diana and the baby are both getting on fine. Jane Andrews is married to her Winnipeg millionaire and off on a tour of Europe. Moody Spurgeon McPherson stopped by to see you today, not realizing that you were away, and says to let you know that he plans to return to Kingsport by the first of September._

 _I did not know what to tell Moody, and so told him nothing, but said I would pass along his message. I know that Kingsport may seem like a lot to ask of yourself at the moment. Whatever you decide to do, your father and I will support you. Know that you always have a home here and can return whenever you like, for as long as you like. We love you and are so proud of you._

 _Aunt Katherine promises that she will send me your news if there is any to tell. I hope that you are doing well in the Glen and can get some rest. You can come home whenever you like. It will be harvest time soon, but your father and I are planning to come out for a visit at least once, when we can get away._

 _Take care, dearest boy. Be kind to yourself, knowing that in doing so, you will oblige_

 _Your loving mother._


	12. Chapter 12: Lost Margaret

Content warning: grief, anxiety

* * *

Chapter 12: Lost Margaret

* * *

In the following weeks, Gilbert fell into a loose routine. Most mornings, he would either walk the shore or go out fishing with Captain Jim. Most afternoons, he would call on Miss Russell or find a shady spot by the brook in the quiet little valley behind the Glen pond to read. As he seemed to be eating enough and returning home every evening, Uncle Dave and Aunt Katherine gave him a wide berth. No one spoke the words "medical school" in his presence.

Gilbert found that he liked Glen St. Mary, or would have, in some other life. For now, he focused on remaining calm, disciplining his breathing, observing his own moods as if he were the subject of an experiment. He had bad moments, but found that he could get along reasonably well by staying firmly grounded in the specific realities of the present moment. Stepping back, thinking either of past or future, tended to overwhelm him, so he strove mightily to avoid anything beyond immediate matters.

When Gilbert felt especially desolate, he went to the rock shore. The sea did not call him to follow it, as it did to Captain Jim, but the crash and solitude satisfied him as nothing else did. Only once did he see another living soul there. It was evening, later than he usually lingered, when he saw a girl standing on one of the jutting red rocks, much farther out into the surf than Gilbert had ever dared to go himself. She was beautiful, maybe the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, with a long rope of thick golden hair and a haunted look on her lovely face. With her skirt whipping in the wind and her face turned to the salt spray, she seemed half human, half wraith.

 _Heathcliff has nothing on her_.

Gilbert did not speak to the girl, and she never saw him. Thus, they passed like ships in the night, plotting their dismal courses alone.

* * *

Gilbert's friends and family did their best to remind him of their love. A stream of letters came to Glen St. Mary with such regularity that Gilbert suspected that his parents must have worked out some sort of formal schedule with the Wrights. Rare was the day that passed without word from Avonlea or Kingsport. The letters were generally of little consequence, and he did not always read them closely. Their purpose was to exist, little missives of care and concern from those who could do little else to encourage him. Gilbert supposed he was glad to receive them, though he could not help feeling somewhat guilty to be taking up so much of everyone's time and attention.

Phil's letters in particular gave him pause. She was the only one of his correspondents who spoke of the future, reminding him frequently that she expected him for Sunday dinners when he returned to Kingsport in September. She wrote as if it were a certainty.

* * *

One afternoon, Gilbert found that he was not the only visitor at the little white house among the firs. As the nurse ushered him into the hall, a brassy voice emanated emphatically from the sitting room.

" . . . and then _he_ said that she couldn't have one! Isn't that like a man?"

Gilbert peered cautiously through the open door. Miss Russell was on the sofa, an afghan over her lap, being addressed by an extraordinary personage who stood, rather than sitting. A wide-brimmed sun hat hid her face, and she was arrayed in a pink-and-green striped wrapper finished rather incongruously with a blue floral apron. One hand clutched a bulging workbag, the other gestured widely as she spoke.

Miss Russell caught Gilbert's eye through the door and grinned.

"Indeed, Cornelia," she said. "But it seems that I have another visitor."

Gilbert stepped into the room and gave a little bow to Miss Cornelia Bryant. That excellent lady looked him up and down with frank interest.

"You're Doctor Dave's nephew," she said, daring him to contradict her.

"At your service, Miss Bryant."

"Oh, so you know who I am, do you? Captain Jim's been telling stories, I expect."

Gilbert did not know quite what to say to that, so he merely smiled, thankful when Miss Russell came to his rescue.

"Won't you stay to tea, Cornelia?" she asked, barely able to contain the smirk twisting the corners of her mouth.

"No. I only stopped in for a moment on my way up to the Morgan place. I'm expected there for tea," Miss Cornelia frowned, clearly dismayed that she could not find adequate excuse to alter her plans.

"Do say hello to Mrs. Morgan for me. And tell Kitty that I hope she will have the most scrumptious adventures in Vancouver," said Miss Russell through a suppressed giggle.

"I will, dearie."

Miss Cornelia gave Gilbert another appraising look and, finding him not wholly unsatisfactory, swept out of the room.

Gilbert approached the tiny old woman on the sofa. She smiled, a bit tiredly.

"Are you well, Miss Russell?" he asked. "If you've had too much of visiting, I can come back another day."

"No, no," replied Miss Russell, though she did recline onto the sofa as she spoke. "Cornelia keeps me up to date with all the comings and goings in the Glen, and I like that. It's only that my head aches today and I'm cross because it keeps me from my novels."

"Can I do anything to make you more comfortable, Miss Russell?"

She smiled up at him. "Dear boy. I would count it an extraordinary kindness if you would read to me."

Gilbert froze. He certainly didn't mind reading aloud and was happy to do Miss Russell a service, but . . .

"Never fear, Mr. Blythe," Miss Russell clucked. "I've finished _Wuthering Heights_."

Gilbert caught her knowing look and wondered whether everyone could read him like an open book. He grimaced in chagrin.

"In that case, what's next, Miss Russell?"

She beamed. "Well, after all of that _sturm und drang_ , I was thinking perhaps Dickens?"

Gilbert crossed the room to the bookcase and selected a volume whose cracked spine and dogeared pages marked it as a beloved friend. Miss Russell settled herself on the cushions and closed her eyes as he began to read.

 _There once lived, in a sequestered part of the county of Devonshire, one Mr. Godfrey Nickleby: a worthy gentleman, who, taking it into his head rather late in life that he must get married, and not being young enough or rich enough to aspire to the hand of a lady of fortune, had wedded an old flame out of mere attachment, who in her turn had taken him for the same reason. Thus two people who cannot afford to play cards for money, sometimes sit down to a quiet game for love.*_

* * *

In the last week of August, Gilbert went down to Four Winds Point to learn how to operate the lighthouse beacon. He had no immediate plans to put this skill to practical use, but Captain Jim had offered and it seemed as sensible a way as any to pass an afternoon.

As always, Captain Jim was delighted to see him. The delight was redoubled by the presentation of a sumptuous little nutcake, frosted pink and white, that Aunt Katherine had insisted Gilbert carry to the Point.

"We'll have a handsome tea when we are through, Mister Blythe," Captain Jim enthused.

They spent the next several hours inspecting the light, trimming wicks, washing windows, refilling oil. Captain Jim showed Gilbert how to work the revolving apparatus and position the reflectors. When they finally went down to their tea, both were comfortably convinced that they had earned it.

"Autumn's around the corner now," Captain Jim observed as he poured. "Are you planning to stay in the Glen?"

Gilbert sighed. "No. I don't know. The truth is, I'm supposed to start medical school in Kingsport next week."

"Oh?" said Captain Jim, who was not surprised.

"I'm sure that Miss Cornelia keeps you very well informed, Captain Jim, so no need to feign ignorance on my behalf."

"It's true that I hear a good deal by Cornelia Bryant," Captain Jim conceded. "But I like to let people do their own telling in their own time, jest the same."

"I imagine you've heard why I came to the Glen?"

"Yes, but not from you."

Gilbert pressed his lips together, forming a thin, white line. He girded himself as if for battle and spoke.

"I . . . I was engaged," he said quietly. "But she died. In June. Typhoid. And it may have been my fault that she got sick." He shuddered. "I'm supposed to go to medical school, but I can't stand to be around people who are badly ill, and sometimes I have these . . . attacks. Something will remind me of her and . . ."

Captain Jim set down his teacup and regarded Gilbert acutely.

"You loved her very much?" he asked kindly.

"Yes," Gilbert breathed.

"You still do?"

Gilbert could only nod.

Captain Jim leaned back in his chair.

"Mister Blythe, may I tell you about lost Margaret?"

"Of course," said Gilbert, sniffling. He did not know who lost Margaret was, but he had a fair idea from Captain Jim's wistful tone.

 _Then Captain Jim told the story — an old, old forgotten story, for it was over fifty years since Margaret had fallen asleep one day in her father's dory and drifted — or so it was supposed, for nothing was ever certainly known as to her fate — out of the channel, beyond the bar, to perish in the black thundersquall which had come up so suddenly that long-ago summer afternoon. But to Captain Jim those fifty years were but as yesterday when it is past._

" _I walked the shore for months after that," he said sadly, "looking to find her dear, sweet little body; but the sea never give her back to me. But I'll find her some time, [Mister] Blythe — I'll find her sometime. She's waiting for me. I wish I could tell you jest how she looked, but I can't. I've seen a fine, silvery mist hanging over the bar at sunrise that seemed like her — and then again I've seen a white birch in the woods back yander that made me think of her . . . Sometimes I wake up in the night and hear the sea calling to me in the old way, and it seems as if lost Margaret called in it. And when there's a storm and the waves are sobbing and moaning I hear her lamenting among them. And when they laugh on a gay day it's HER laugh — lost Margaret's sweet, roguish little laugh. The sea took her from me, but some day I'll find her, [Mister] Blythe. It can't keep us apart forever."_

Gilbert found himself quite unable to reply.

" _It does me good to talk about her_ ," said Captain Jim, filling up the silence. " _It's a pleasure to me — for all the pain went out of her memory years ago and jest left its blessing_."**

Gilbert studied the weathered face to see if this were true. He found that the old man's eyes sparkled somewhat over-brightly, but there was no trace of strain in brow or jaw.

"I . . . I find that difficult to imagine," he muttered.

"I know," replied Captain Jim through a sad and sympathetic smile.

"You've lived like this for fifty years?"

"Fifty-one. And two weeks."

Gilbert gave a little snort that was neither a laugh nor a sob. "How?"

Captain Jim did not answer right away, but took time to gather his thoughts. Finally, he said, "I once heard a minister preach on a verse. Do you know it? It says, ' _the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak_.'"

"I've heard it."

"Well, in my experience, it's t'other way round," said Captain Jim. "I've found that if you give your body a bit o' sup, it'll keep on breathing and moving until the spirit is ready to catch up."

"Is that just another way of saying time heals all wounds?" asked Gilbert, unable to keep some bitterness from his voice.

"No." Captain Jim leaned forward and fixed Gilbert with a frank and kindly look. "No, that's jest something people say when they're flummoxed. I wouldn't expect you to believe this from any of them excellent people that wants to comfort you. They might love you and want to take your pain away, but they can't, and they end up poking you in the raw places. But I'll tell you true. It's been over fifty years since I lost Margaret, and I know that voyage well. The wound never heals. But you pick up bits of bandage here and there. And one day, you find that you can walk around without bleeding."

Gilbert's vision was blurry, but he forced his mouth into the shape of a smile.

"I'm not there yet."

"No. And you won't be, I'm afraid. Not for a long while. But life is stranger than you expect it to be. Mebbe you can't see which way the wind blows now, but hear me when I tell you, Mister Blythe, that there are safe harbors out there, beyont the storm."

It wasn't comforting. Not exactly. But Captain Jim was right in one respect. All the heartfelt condolences in the world had not reached Gilbert as the old man's comradeship had. He was not a well-wisher, but a fellow-traveler. And that made all the difference.

"So what do I do now?" Gilbert asked, when he could speak again.

"Right now? You find a way to stay afloat. Find something that will occupy your mind, and give you your orders. Early on, I didn't think I could live from one day to the next, never mind year to year. But I could always make it to the next watch. Hard to fade away when you've got the second mate growling down your hammock."

"And after that?"

Captain Jim paused, seeming to choose his words with care. "Someday, when you aren't looking for it, a breeze will call you. And when it does, you jest hoist your sail and see where it takes you."

* * *

*These are the opening lines of Charles Dickens' _Nicholas Nickleby_ (1839).

** _Anne's House of Dreams_ , chapter 20

* * *

Author's Note:

Thanks to all who have read and reviewed! Every review has made my heart leap with excitement, just knowing that this story has touched someone in some way.

These first 12 chapters have gotten the story started. Now that it is underway, I am going to go to a less aggressive publication schedule to make sure I'm always putting out my best work. I'm hoping to publish twice per week from now on.

Thank you so much for your encouragement, your love, and your PMs. Writing this has been one of the most healing things I have done and I feel better than I have in a very long time.


	13. Chapter 13: Return to Kingsport

Content warning: grief, anxiety

* * *

Chapter 13: Return to Kingsport

* * *

A week later, Gilbert was more than a little bewildered to find himself standing at the entrance to the medical students' dormitory at Redmond. The red brick building towered several stories above him, its roof terminating in gothic peaks and points, banded in brown sandstone and gray slate. Gilbert clutched a valise in one hand, an informational letter in the other, and stared up at the arched stones of the entryway.

* * *

His departure from Glen St. Mary had been rather precipitous. After considering Captain Jim's advice, Gilbert had informed Uncle Dave and Aunt Katherine that he meant to return to Kingsport in time for the start of term the following week.

This announcement had set in motion such a flurry of activity that Gilbert realized for the first time just how much everyone had been tiptoeing around the subject. Aunt Katherine and Mrs. MacAllister tore through his wardrobe, washing, starching, and mending every stitch of clothing he owned. Uncle Dave buttonholed him during this whirlwind, delivering such a bewildering array of musts and must-nots that Gilbert remembered only one: _never_ name your cadaver. Or was it _always_ name your cadaver? Uncle Dave had strong views on the matter, one way or another.

Two days later, John and Cora Blythe answered Aunt Katherine's ecstatic summons, alighting at the Glen St. Mary train station with hopeful hearts. Gilbert met them there, and was soundly kissed and praised for his decision.

"Do you really feel ready to go back?" Cora asked, holding her son at arm's length and scrutinizing his face for indecision.

"After the last two days, I'd better be," Gilbert groaned. "Aunt Katherine and Uncle Dave have been in a state, trying to get me ready in time."

"That's not a good enough reason," said John, swallowing his own enthusiasm.

"You don't have to go to medical school, Gilbert," agreed Cora. "You can come home with us, if you like."

Gilbert presented his parents with a smile. They were glad to see it, though _there was something in the smile that had never been in Gilbert's smile before and would never be absent from it again_.*

"No, Mother. Dad. I want to go. I've had a lot of time to think things over. I've gotten some good advice and made some decisions. Medical school is the best place for me right now."

Both John and Cora grinned their approval. As Gilbert turned to lead them to the buggy, they quietly took one another by the hand and squeezed.

* * *

Gilbert wished he felt as certain as he had said he was. Now, standing before the dormitory steps, about to embark on his future, he cringed. This was always going to be a difficult three years. Three months ago, Gilbert had expected to meet them rejoicing as a strong man to run a race.** Instead, he felt himself slouching toward the starting line, depleted, exposed, and vulnerable.

 _No help for it now._

Gilbert took a steadying breath and crossed the threshold into the next three years.

* * *

He found his room easily enough. It was on the first floor, down a short corridor and protected from the front entrance by the bulk of the grand staircase. There were no other student rooms in this section, though several faculty apartments took up the back half of the floor. This suited Gilbert fine, as did the prospect of having a room to himself. He had not grown up in a houseful of brothers, and had found sharing quarters with Charlie Sloane at their boarding house to be a daily trial.

In fact, the room was far more comfortable than it had any right to be. It must once have been intended as some sort of reception room, judging from the unnecessarily formal fireplace and the dark wood paneling. The bed — a real bed, not a narrow pallet — was partially concealed behind a latticed screen, giving the impression of two rooms instead of one. A small sofa, armchair, and side table stood around the perimeter of a handsome carpet before the fireplace, with a desk, bookcase, wardrobe, and washstand completing the furnishings. Winner of the Cooper Prize indeed.

Gilbert dropped his valise onto the sofa and had a look around. The maintenance staff had been in recently; there was wood in the box by the hearth and clean linens folded at the foot of the bed. Four crates in the corner would be his books and the few other things he had left with Mrs. Saunders. When his trunk arrived this evening, he would be fully kitted out for his new life as a medical student. For the moment, all he had was the stethoscope she had given him for a graduation present. He drew it from his coat pocket and placed it on the desk.

A small pile of mail sat on the desk. Gilbert flipped through it. A letter and a thick packet from the Dean of the Medical School ( _should probably open those_ ), one from each of his parents ( _how had they managed to write to him since he left them yesterday?_ ), and a thin envelope from Phil. He tore into the last of these first, finding a brief note.

 _4 September 1887  
_ _Dear Gilbert,  
_ _WELCOME BACK TO KINGSPORT!  
_ _I wanted to remind you that you are expected for dinner this Sunday (and every Sunday) at the manse. You can't miss it — just walk up Patterson Street to the church and look for the gray house with blue shutters across the street. We'll look for you at two o'clock._ _  
_ _Love,  
_ _Phil  
_ _P.S. Jo says to tell you that I have been practicing my roast chicken and that it is NEARLY ALWAYS edible now. P.B._

The smaller envelope from Dean Blanchard proved to be an invitation to supper at seven o'clock tomorrow, the first day of term. The larger contained a course catalog and a packet of information for incoming medical students. Gilbert moved toward the sofa, reading as he went. A general letter of introduction, a personalized card assigning him to Section B and Bandaging Group #2, whatever that meant, and a course schedule titled "Order of Lectures Daily — First Year."

Gilbert let out a whistle at this last. The chart ran six days a week, from nine in the morning until half past eight at night, with Saturday afternoons free after two o'clock. There were hour-long breaks here and there, but not many. He stared for a while at Tuesday, which ran straight through — chemistry, chem lab, dissection, anatomy lecture, histology, bandaging — without a single interlude.***

 _Do medical students ever eat?_

Gilbert looked at the daily block running from noon to two and discovered that it was reserved for cadaver dissection.

 _Perhaps not._

It was a punishing schedule, but that was what he had wanted, wasn't it? With this course load and Sunday dinners at the manse, Gilbert wondered when he'd even find time to study his notes.

* * *

"Welcome, gentlemen. As Dean of the Medical School at Redmond, I can say with certainty . . ."****

Gilbert sat among the other first-year students as Dean Blanchard spoke, welcoming the class of 1890 to Redmond Medical School. The amphitheater was crowded this morning, holding all three classes of medical students as well as the entire faculty and a gallery full of interested onlookers.

Gilbert attempted to pay attention.

". . . as my friend, Dr. William Osler is wont to say, 'He who studies medicine without books sails an uncharted sea, but he who studies medicine without patients does not go to sea at all' . . ."****

After the convocation address, the medical students were dismissed to their inaugural classes. The second- and third-years bustled away in clusters, laughing and chatting on their way across the medical school quad to their Physical Diagnosis and Morbid Anatomy lectures.

The first-years adjourned to the chemistry laboratories. Their schedules called for two hours of chem lab on Tuesday mornings immediately following their hour-long chem lecture. As they filed into the lab, Gilbert took the opportunity to observe his fellow students: forty well-dressed, eager young men, most of them about his age, though they seemed to range in age from about 20 to their late 30s. A few spoke to their neighbors, but most were still keeping to themselves, unsure of their surroundings.

"Gentlemen!" called a portly, graying man in a dark suit and lab coat. "Welcome to Redmond. I am Professor Warren. It will be my duty to instruct you in chemistry. As we will be spending every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday morning together from now until May, my first piece of advice to you is to keep on my good side. Now then, the Redmond chemistry laboratories are newly renovated, thanks to a gift from several generous alumni. You will find here the very latest equipment, and you will be expected to treat it with the utmost care."

Professor Warren gave them a tour of the lab, naming and explaining the various pieces of apparatus. Gilbert was impressed with the setup, which outshone the undergraduate labs in several important ways, including the size and sophistication of its draught cupboards and hoods.

"You will work in teams of two," Professor Warren pronounced. "When I call your name, please take your assigned station. Langley and Archer, here. Foster and Reynolds, here. Blythe and Wilson, here."

Gilbert took his place calmly, but his new lab partner fairly bounded forward. He was a handsome young man, blonde and square-jawed. Not tall, but sleek and athletic, like a hunting dog. He had a knavish smile that began at one corner of his mouth and unfurled itself over his even, white teeth as if being peeled open.

"I'm Wilson. Edgar Wilson," he said in a voice that pretended to be a whisper, though it was not notably lacking in volume.

He extended a hand to Gilbert, who took it and muttered "Gilbert Blythe," glancing around to be sure that he was not talking over Professor Warren.

"You a Redmond man, Blythe?" Wilson asked.

Gilbert only nodded, willing his new lab partner to stop talking, lest they miss some important instruction from Prof. Warren.

"I am as well," Edgar nattered on. "Class of '84. Spent the last three years in Europe. Wasn't _that_ a time! Say, isn't this a spanking fine lab?"

Edgar gestured widely, knocking into a tray of beakers that clattered but thankfully did not break. The whole class turned to see Gilbert pressing his hands over the beakers to halt their reverberation. Prof. Warren sniffed; several students snickered. Edgar merely shrugged.

"As I was saying," Prof. Warren continued, "we will waste no time. Please open Dr. Fownes's manual to page 13. We will begin with the proper operation of the hydrometer, which will allow us to measure the specific gravity of various liquids . . ."

Two hours later, Gilbert was hurrying across the quad. The first-year class was divided into two sections: Section A was due in the Histology lab in five minutes; Section B was headed for the dissecting room.

"Wait up, Blythe!" came a cheerful call.

Gilbert gritted his teeth. He had spent the last quarter hour chasing after a dozen tiny glass specific-gravity indicators that Edgar Wilson had scattered over the floor. Just his luck . . .

"Say, I'm in Section B as well!" grinned Edgar, catching up.

Gilbert grimaced.

"I'm sure dissecting will be awful interesting. I sat in on a demonstration once when I was in Frankfurt. The doctor doing the dissection held up the heart for everyone to see and he looked like a regular warlock, all gore to the elbows and holding it aloft. Do you know where Redmond gets its cadavers from?"

Much to his dismay, Gilbert was obliged to endure this companionship for the rest of the day. Though Gilbert said and did little to encourage him, Edgar continued to hang around, taking a neighboring seat at both the anatomy lecture and the histology demonstration. At 5:30, Gilbert inquired patiently whether Edgar was planning to attend the bandaging practicum that evening.

Edgar consulted his schedule card. "No, today is Bandaging Group #1. I'm with Group #2 on Thursdays."

 _Of course you are_ , Gilbert thought crossly. Aloud, he said, "I'm afraid I have to leave you now. I am expected for supper at Dean Blanchard's and need to go change so that I don't show up smelling of formaldehyde."

Edgar looked impressed. "Supper with the Dean on the first night? Well aren't you the be all and end all."

Gilbert, who had not meant to brag, flushed. "No. I'm sure it has something to do with the Cooper Prize. I won it at Redmond and there are certain responsibilities that I must attend to."

Edgar grinned. "So you're the Cooper Prize winner! I had heard that someone took it! Congrats, old boy, that's wonderful!"

"Thanks," said Gilbert, a bit flatly.

"You must have heaps of brains, Blythe. Good to know. Put in a good word for me with the Dean!" Edgar retreated, waving cheerily and calling, "I'll see you tomorrow morning!"

* * *

At seven o'clock sharp, Gilbert knocked at the door of Dean Blanchard's house on a handsome street in one of Kingsport's wealthiest neighborhoods. He brushed a leaf from the trousers of his Sunday suit; it had been necessary to cut across several backyards to avoid stepping foot on Spofford Avenue.

A butler in crisp livery showed Gilbert into the drawing room. Dean Blanchard stood before the fire, speaking animatedly with a tall, slim man in his 40s. Two well-dressed women in early middle age chatted on a emerald velvet sofa, the jewel tones and elaborate ruffles of their evening gowns quite at home in the dark-paneled, betassled room.

"Ah, Mr. Blythe!" hailed the Dean. "Come in, come in!"

All conversation ceased and the ladies got to their feet, smiling in welcome.

Dean Blanchard shook Gilbert's hand with hearty enthusiasm. Gilbert hoped that his own smile was a convincing facsimile.

"Mr. Blythe, please meet my wife," — the woman in sapphire satin extended a gloved hand — "and Mrs. Edmonds" — her ruby-clad companion followed suit.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, ladies," said Gilbert, attempting to ignite his usual charm and praying the stuttering, sputtering feeling of it was not evident in his expression. "Thank you for inviting me tonight."

Both women seemed pleased enough with this display. Gilbert felt like a fraud, but also slightly more confident that his charade might hold up. He had kept his feelings hidden before; this was just another performance of the old familiar show.

"And this," said Dean Blanchard, "is Dr. Samuel Edmonds. Visiting Professor of Medicine, Chief of Surgery at Kingsport Hospital, and Cooper Prize mentor. Dr. Edmonds, this is Gilbert Blythe, winner of the Cooper Prize."

Gilbert tried to take in as much information about the man as he possibly could, as quickly as he could. Slender and graceful, as tall as Gilbert himself, though not quite so broad-shouldered. He had dark hair, beginning to turn to salt-and-pepper, and a short, pointed beard below the double crescents of a curved mustache. A friendly twinkle in his eye made Gilbert feel as if he were meeting a colleague, rather than a superior.

Dr. Edmonds shook Gilbert's hand firmly, but not in a challenging fashion.

"We meet at last, Mr. Blythe," he smiled. "Professor Frederickson has been singing your praises all summer."

"I hope I can live up to his expectations," Gilbert replied, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"I'm sure you will," chuckled Dean Blanchard. "Dr. Edmonds was just telling me that he has made room in his schedule to offer you some advanced clinical opportunities on Saturday afternoons. Isn't that splendid?"

"Thank you, Dr. Edmonds. I look forward to the opportunity," said Gilbert, beginning to pray that his flagging brain would offer up more than the blandest platitudes at some point this evening.

"What do you say, Blythe," smiled Dr. Edmonds. "Are you ready to be a surgeon?"

"That's the plan," Gilbert replied, hoping with all his heart that it was still true.

* * *

The remainder of the week passed in a blur. Gilbert found the course schedule challenging, but the material was well within his grasp. Textbooks and lectures had never given him much trouble, and the hands-on lessons in pharmacology, materia medica, and histology kept him busy. On nights when he had an evening session of pharmacy lab or bandaging practice, he had barely enough energy to stumble back to the dormitory and crawl into bed.

Gilbert was vaguely disappointed to find that he felt none of the anticipatory joy that had marked his early days as an undergraduate at Redmond, but reasoned that an inert calm that neither rose nor fell was better than the tempest that had ruled him all summer.

At one o'clock on Sunday, Gilbert changed into a clean shirt and straightened his favorite blue tie. He wasn't looking forward to dinner with Phil and Jo, nor dreading it either. He felt only the same flat resignation that leeched anticipation and enjoyment out of all his endeavors. Still, he would go and try to keep up his end of the conversation, if only to set Phil's and Jo's minds at ease.

He set out for Patterson Street, stopping to buy a posy of dahlias from a street vendor. It was a long walk, made longer by the route he chose. He had not ventured anywhere near the park since his return to Kingsport, and did not mean to try now.

Instead, Gilbert traveled up the high street, following it farther than Redmond students generally roamed. As he walked, the shops presented more modest faces. Polished boutiques gave way to second-hand stores and, eventually, to pawn shops. Gilbert was not discomfited, as many Redmond students would have been. To tell the truth, he had been more uncomfortable at the fancy receptions and balls, acting the part of a scion of Kingsport society, than he was here. He knew this neighborhood reasonably well, having spent many happy days here last year, tutoring Timothy.

 _Timothy_.

There was a thought he could have done without.

 _Put it away_ , he coached himself. _Think on that later_.

But a prickling itch was creeping up his skin. His tie was too tight, his breathing too fast. Recognizing his symptoms, Gilbert paid conscious attention to his breathing.

 _In, hold, and out; in, hold, and out._

He took another step toward Patterson Street, but his leg seemed to resist his command. Another, and he felt nauseous.

 _Come on, you can do this._

But he couldn't. It should have been easy to walk just a few blocks more, but the barrier in his brain was crackling, signaling danger in a series of electric pops and zaps. It didn't matter that Phil and Jo were waiting. In the moment, Gilbert knew that he faced a choice between walking into an attack or retreating to safety. Everything he had ever been taught urged him onward; everything he had learned by his own experience counseled surrender.

Humiliated, Gilbert turned and walked swiftly back toward his dormitory.

* * *

* _Anne's House of Dreams,_ chapter 20

**Psalm 19:5, quoted in LMMontgomery's works by both Reverend Allan and Phil Gordon.

***Gilbert's medical school coursework is based on the course of study for the University of Pennsylvania Medical School class of 1889. This website won't let me insert a link, but if you search for _UPenn Medical School 1889_ you should be able to find a lovely online exhibit by the UPenn archives.

****In 1887, a few medical schools admitted women, but Dalhousie (Redmond) was not one of them. The first woman to graduate from Dalhousie Medical School was Annie Isabella Hamilton, Class of 1894. Dean Blanchard is fictional, but Dr. William Osler was a real Canadian physician and an important figure in the development of formal medical education in Canada and the US.


	14. Chapter 14: The Bear

Content warning: grief, anxiety, depression

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **First, a special thank you to KimBlythe for pointing out that "Edgar Willis" sounded like he might be connected to Bertha Willis. That was not my intention, so I've gone back and changed his name to Edgar Wilson. Thanks, KimBlythe for spotting the error.**

 **This was the most difficult chapter for me to write. I debated cutting it, but that felt cowardly. Given both my experience and L. M. Montgomery's own terminal depression, it felt especially important not to pull punches here. I started this story with the intention of dragging some things about grief out into the light, so here they are. Things get better (both for me and for Gilbert), but this has to have a place here.**

 **I can promise two things:**

 **1\. This is pretty much the bottom of Gilbert's emotional arc. There are other sad chapters, but none of them put me through the wringer like this one.**

 **2\. Part I of this story has 33 chapters. I'm hard at work on Part II, which is similar in length. I've already written an epilogue and I can promise you it ends with joy.**

* * *

Chapter 14: The Bear

* * *

One morning, when Gilbert was twelve years old, he awoke early to stoke the fire. John Blythe was having another bad week, wheezing and coughing in such violent fits that his body would quiver for half an hour after they subsided. Gilbert would sit by him then, laying a gentle hand on his back, willing him to take another breath, and then another. When his father lapsed into fitful sleep, Gilbert would allow himself the refuge of the outdoors. A boulder some meters distant from the front door provided a favorite seat; he could look up at the Rocky Mountains, purple and misty in the distance, while remaining close enough to hear if he were needed.

On this particular morning, John Blythe was sleeping calmly, his breathing regular and relatively clear. Gilbert tiptoed to the cabin door, not wishing to disturb him. He carried his boots with him, stopping to slip them on only after he had latched the door softly behind him.

Gilbert was intending to gather kindling for the stove, but the need was not pressing. He had a few minutes to himself to wander in the cool morning. The mountains drew his eye, as they always did, and he wondered what it might be like to walk westward without stopping, onward and upward and down again until he reached the Pacific.

Gilbert approached his boulder, lost in reverie. As he rounded it, a low sound brought him up short. Not twenty meters away, an enormous grizzly bear snuffled in the underbrush, clawing at a dead log to expose the grubs within.

Gilbert froze, but not fast enough.

The bear swung its head around and sniffed the air. Rising onto its back legs, it stood, a quiet growl rumbling in its throat.

Gilbert stood transfixed. His mind began to work feverishly. There was no way he could outrun a bear to the cabin door, not even with a twenty-meter head start. He had no weapon and no hope of rescue. Not knowing what else to do, he took one slow step backward, then another, all the time keeping his eyes fixed steadily on the bear.

Three steps brought him back to the boulder. Five more put him behind it. He could still see the bear standing, its nose twitching, watching him as intently as he watched it.

All of a sudden, the bear dropped out of sight. Gilbert could not see it around the boulder and had no idea whether it had dropped to all fours to continue with its foraging or to rush him. He took several steps backward, more quickly now, still looking toward the boulder.

The bear appeared all at once. Powerful strides propelled it past the boulder, not in a full run, but in a loping charge that ate up the intervening meters in an instant.

Gilbert felt his guts turn to water. He steeled himself for the blow he knew must fall. But it did not. The bear pulled itself up short, still several meters away, its furry ears twitching with curiosity.

"Easy, bear," Gilbert murmured. He continued to back away, one step, then another, over and over until his heel collided with the step in front of the cabin door. He felt behind him for the latch, lifting it carefully. When it gave way, he stepped swiftly inside and slammed the door shut. Leaning against the barred door, he breathed as if for the first time.

In after years, the story of the bear had been a favorite among the Avonlea small fry. Gilbert could tell it so well, affecting a menacing growl that always made Moody jump, no matter how many times he had heard it. With the danger over, it was safe to laugh and wonder at the drama of it all. And it had not escaped Gilbert's notice that telling such a thrilling tale within hearing distance of a certain red-headed maiden tended to render that particular audience immobile and attentive, even when her back was turned.

* * *

Now, Gilbert found himself thinking of the bear again. It seemed to haunt him, looming in the corridor after Prof. Dewey's topographical anatomy lecture or padding softly after him as he climbed the stairs to the histology lab. More bizarrely still, no one else seemed to notice it, though it stood three meters tall and growled continuously. It was not a hallucination, per se, but merely an oppressive presence, keeping him always alert and on edge.

Gilbert found that there were times when he could shut the door in the bear's face. When he was absorbed in a lecture or experiment, or meeting with Dr. Edmonds, his attention would be fully engaged, focused on the task at hand. For an hour or two, it would seem is if everything was just as it should be.

But when the lecture was finished, or the meeting concluded, Gilbert would step out into the hall, and find the bear waiting for him. Somehow, it was a surprise every time. And every time, he had to realize again the agonizing truth. She was dead. No facade of normalcy could change that.

Sometimes, Gilbert would feel a bit of his old excitement. A professor would introduce an intriguing concept or he would discover something fascinating under his microscope. It would be like old times, when hunger for knowledge had thrilled him, energized him for the work ahead. But now, whatever zeal he felt would drain the moment he stepped over a threshold and back into the wider world. The bear was waiting for him, always. In a single instant, he would remember, and be ashamed for forgetting, and feel a deep despair wash over him, extinguishing any spark that had managed to kindle.

* * *

One Sunday in October, Gilbert knocked at the door of the Patterson Street manse. For the first time in over a month, Jonas had not come to the dormitory to escort him to dinner, as he had every Sunday since that first abortive attempt. Surely, this was progress.

Phil answered the door, her face smudged, her apron showing a long singe down one side.

"Doing battle with the stove?" Gilbert asked.

"And emerging victorious!" she replied, unfurling her crooked smile.

At dinner, Gilbert made sure to praise the meal, which was, in point of fact, tolerably good.

"Jo is responsible for the potatoes," Phil confessed. "But please don't tell anyone in the congregation."

Later, in the sitting room, Gilbert gave his usual update on classes and news from home. There was little enough to tell. The past week had brought his parents' regular letters, full of news about the apple harvest and assurances that they were getting on well. Gilbert privately suspected that they wrote to Phil just as often as they did to him, but she generally feigned ignorance of any news he shared from them. Perhaps they did not bother to tell her how the orchard was getting along.

A letter from Diana had given him the news of Avonlea. Mrs. Sloane was already inviting the whole town to Charlie's wedding, which would not take place until the spring. Josie Pye had rejected one suitor and taken up with another. Minnie May had been after Mr. and Mrs. Barry to let her join the Queen's class at school, but the matter wasn't settled yet. There was one worrying line; apparently Davy Keith was still living with the Harrisons and Dora with the Barrys. That bothered Gilbert, but he could not examine the feeling long enough to make any headway in deciphering it.

"How is Mr. Wilson getting along?" Jo asked, inviting one of the few subjects that ever seemed to animate Gilbert in any way.

"He went the whole week without breaking anything," Gilbert grumbled. "I was beginning to hope, but it turns out that he was merely hoarding his powers of destruction for Saturday. I won't tell you exactly what happened, as it involved a rather disgusting mess."

"I do feel some sympathy for the poor man," Phil said, "as one novice to another. We can't all have your steady hand, Gil."

Gilbert winced slightly, thinking of all the times recently when his hands had been distressingly, ungovernably unsteady. But Phil didn't know that and it would do no good to tell her. Instead, he said, "Even you, Phil, would watch where you were going when there were cadavers about."

Phil gave a little yelp. "Too right I would. Gil, you can't mean that he upset a . . . a body?"

Gilbert nodded solemnly, the ghost of a smile passing briefly over his face. "I think he upset everybody."

Phil and Jo dissolved into fits of laughter. Gilbert smiled softly at their pleasure, but felt unaccountably as if he were about to cry.

When Jo had recovered, he asked, "How are you getting on with your studies? It seems that they keep you so busy that you can hardly have time to absorb what you're learning."

Gilbert agreed. "That's true enough. We do get a break for supper every day, and only have to go back for evening sessions twice a week. Of course, I have extra work with Dr. Edmonds on Saturdays, so that takes up some of my study time. I try to review the textbooks and my notes the other evenings, and I can get a solid session of work in on Sunday mornings."

"You work on Sundays?" Phil frowned, her pointed black brows drawn together in disapproval.

"So does Jo," Gilbert pointed out.

"Yes, but Jo is a minister. He has to be in church on Sunday mornings."

"Well, I don't," said Gilbert, beginning to be annoyed.

Jo caught Phil's eye and gave a nearly imperceptible shake of the head. "That sounds like a challenging schedule," he said. "I'm very glad you can make the time to come see us."

Gilbert relaxed a bit. "I'm glad you'll have me. It's true — this is a workday for you. I do feel a bit guilty for taking you away from your duties."

Jo fixed Gilbert with a frank look. "You think this is not part of my work?"

Gilbert flushed hotly. "You don't need to minister to me, Jo. I'm not one of your congregants."

Jo did not look away. "No. But you're my friend. My work is to be present for people when they are in need. And I'll always be here, whenever you need someone."

Gilbert swallowed hard and studied his own feet.

Phil gracefully excused herself to fetch tea. When she had left the room, Jo leaned forward.

"How are you really doing, Gil?" he asked, his voice soft.

Gilbert leaned back with a groan. "I dunno, Jo. About the same. The schedule really does help. Keeps me busy. But any time I let my mind wander . . ."

He did not finish the thought.

Jo waited patiently.

"I just don't know, Jo. What is the point of any of this? What am I doing here, other than distracting myself?"

"You're working toward becoming a doctor," Jo replied evenly. "You're learning how to help people. To relieve suffering. Someday, you will save lives."

Gilbert snorted. "I'm not sure I believe it. I certainly don't look forward to it. Everyone else can see me as a doctor at the end of this, but I can't picture it anymore. When I try to think about the future, there's just nothing there."

"I can see you," Jo said. "I can see you working in a hospital, performing a lifesaving surgery. And I can see you in a little town somewhere, tending to a community. I can even see you here, on Patterson Street — we could work here side-by-side, caring for the people. I know you, Gil. You'll be wonderful."

Gilbert only shook his head. "Anything beyond next week is just blankness to me. I can't even think as far ahead as Christmas. I used to be able to see my whole life stretched out before me. Even when bits of it were uncertain, I could imagine a future for myself. Not anymore."

"You don't need to think that far ahead. Just take it a day at a time. A week at a time. Make it back to us each week. The rest will come eventually."

Gilbert was silent a long time, considering.

Finally, he took a risk.

"I always thought I couldn't live without her. Maybe I can't. I wonder sometimes . . . whether there's a reason I can't see myself in the future. Whether . . . I'm not going to be around much longer."

A clatter of teacups obliterated any reply Jo might have made. Phil, her face gone white as bone, stood gaping in the doorway.

Gilbert grimaced. "Don't look at me like that, Phil. Don't! I'm still here, so obviously I haven't done anything desperate."

These words hardly seemed to reassure Phil, who exchanged a frightened glance with her husband.

"Gilbert," Jo said, very gently, "have you ever found yourself thinking of ending your life?"

Gilbert let out a single harsh breath of laughter. "Only a hundred times."

"Gil . . ."

Gilbert waved a hand impatiently. "You don't understand. I'm not going to kill myself. You can rest easy on that account. How can I explain this so that you can understand?"

Phil set down the tea tray and sat next to Gilbert on the lounge. With an equal measure of gentleness and firmness, she took his hand in hers and looked squarely into his eyes.

"Tell me," she said. "Give me a concrete example, just as you used to do whenever you were working through a difficult problem at Redmond."

For a moment, Gilbert squirmed, wishing he could withdraw his hand. She was too close, seeing too clearly. But oh, it did feel wonderful to have firm, loving fingers wrapped around his own. No one had touched him in weeks, and it was almost as if he could feel strength flowing into him from her caring gesture.

"I . . . well . . ." he faltered. "It's like this. You know that my father was very ill when I was a boy, yes?"

Both Phil and Jo nodded, hanging on his words.

"Well, after he began to recover, I would sometimes wake in the night and feel pangs in my chest. I don't know whether they were really there, or whether I only imagined them. But it would frighten me, and I would lie awake for hours, diagnosing myself with everything from tuberculosis to cancer to an aortic rupture, convinced I'd be dead by morning. As I grew up, it happened less and less frequently. But every now and then, when I was overtired or worn down, I would find myself lying awake at night, afraid to go to sleep because I might never wake up."

He paused, and Phil squeezed his hand.

"Is it happening more now, Gil?"

He managed a rueful little half smile.

"No. I still feel the pangs. But they don't keep me up worrying. Because I don't really care if I wake up or not."

The last words came out as a ragged sob. Phil let go of his hand and pulled him into a tight embrace. He wept into her shoulder, far past caring anything for dignity or propriety. For long minutes, he poured out his grief, his despair, and his loneliness, until the tears had spent themselves and his body shuddered with relief. Phil held him close, stroking his back and whispering reassuring noises as he calmed.

Eventually, Gilbert sat up, gratefully accepting Jo's offer of a clean handkerchief.

"Oh, Phil!" he managed, with a dreadful attempt at a smile. "I've ruined your dress."

"Nonsense," she said, briskly.

"No. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone to pieces like that. It's not fair to put this on you. Any of this."

"Gilbert Blythe!" There was a flash in Phil's brown eyes that made Gilbert sit up a little straighter.

"Are you daring to suggest that there's anything more important to us than being here for you just when you need the most help? Oh, don't look offended. You do need help, and plenty of it. You're trying to keep so much to yourself. That was always your way. But I simply will not stand for it, do you hear me? Jo and I would do anything for you, Gil. Anything. And I will not sit here and listen to you admonish yourself for letting us share your burden. There's little enough that we can do. You will not begrudge us the opportunity to hear your troubles and to comfort you in any way we can."

Gilbert's smile was a little steadier now.

"Is that an order?"

"Indeed it is."

"You sound like my mother."

"Good."

Jo smiled sadly at the two of them, knowing there was little else he could say at the moment. Instead, he poured the tea and passed a plate of cookies.

After these ceremonies were observed, the pause in the conversation threatened to harden into a silence.

Gilbert sighed. "Phil? Could you do me a kindness?"

"Anything, honey."

"Could you just talk for a while? Tell me a story. Any story. Church business, maybe. Or the neighborhood doings. Just let me sit and listen for a while."

"Of course," she said, her voice low and gentle. Then she smiled, straightened her back, and chirped, "the aftermath of the annual general meeting of the Ladies' Quilting Society could fill an hour all on its own."

"Fill away."


	15. Chapter 15: Duty Calls

Chapter 15: Duty Calls

* * *

Gilbert had gotten used to Saturday morning clinics, more or less. Every Saturday, from ten o'clock until noon, first year medical students shadowed doctors at Kingsport Hospital, observing examinations and procedures. The first few weeks had been dreadful. Gilbert had spent so much time digging his fingernails into his palms that little crescent bruises emerged among the constellations of scars.

But, in truth, no one expected much from the first year students when it came time for clinic. One of them might volunteer to demonstrate the bandaging techniques they had been practicing, but that was all. If Gilbert tended to hover at the back of the group, perhaps it was only because he was tall.

After clinic, Section B attended a two-hour cadaver dissection lab. When that was concluded, the first years were dismissed for a blissful day and a half to rest, study, or drink, as they preferred. All except Gilbert Blythe.

The winner of the Cooper Prize surely needed rest, and he made as much time as possible for study. But no Saturday night revels intruded on his schedule. After his classmates had drifted off to their diversions, Gilbert climbed the stairs to the top floor of Kingsport Hospital to work with Dr. Edmonds.

Sessions with Dr. Edmonds were always highly engrossing. He was clearly a masterful surgeon, but also a kind and patient teacher. Gilbert appreciated the opportunity and genuinely liked Dr. Edmonds, even if he did not quite relish the work in the way he thought he ought. The fault was not in the work, he knew, but in himself.

One Saturday in November, Gilbert and Dr. Edmonds spent a long afternoon combing through recent medical journals for studies relating to post-surgical infections.

"Some of the older doctors here still don't believe in Dr. Lister's theories about antisepsis," Dr. Edmonds explained. "I'm trying to convince them that we must introduce every possible technique that has proven effective in the fight against infection. We use diluted carbolic acid, of course, but that isn't enough. There are so many new ideas being tested at this very minute, and we need to keep up with the latest successes. For example, I attended a conference recently where one of the presenters suggested wearing gloves during surgery to protect the patient from microorganisms carried by the surgeon. Isn't that splendid? We don't know whether it works, of course, but it's worth finding out."

"Wouldn't it be difficult to hold a scalpel while wearing gloves?" Gilbert asked.

"I'm sure it would be. We'll have to make better gloves. But I don't lose many patients to a clumsy scalpel stroke. I lose many — far, far too many — to infection. That's the real fight here, Mr. Blythe. When we can solve the problem of antisepsis, surgery will change the face of medicine forever."

When the articles were marked and the unused journals filed away, Dr. Edmonds took Gilbert as his guest to a supper club down the street from the hospital. Many of the senior doctors of Kingsport were members of the Asclepian Club, and it was not unusual to find the heads of various departments laughing and grousing over brandy on a Saturday evening.

Dr. Edmonds and Gilbert took a table in a quiet alcove and ordered two plates of whatever the steak of the day happened to be.

"I don't know how they expect you boys to learn when they don't feed you properly," Dr. Edmonds said. "I showed my wife a copy of the first year schedule the other day and she threatened to send a nasty letter to Dean Blanchard."

"We get by," Gilbert replied through a mouthful of steak. "And I don't think it lets up in the second year."

"Indeed not," Dr. Edmonds replied. "Full days on Saturdays and five evenings a week in the dissecting lab. It's not a schedule anyone could keep for long."

"You work a full day on Saturday," Gilbert observed.

"Well, my wife doesn't particularly like that either," said Dr. Edmonds, taking a sip of his wine. "I'm not working next Saturday evening, though," he said, brightening. "And neither are you."

"No?" asked Gilbert, surprised.

"Of course not. The Hannerford Ball is next week. I'm surprised Dean Blanchard hasn't spoken to you yet. Several of the alumni on the board of the Cooper Prize will be in attendance. I believe that you and I are supposed to entertain them at supper."

Gilbert had stopped eating.

"Are you alright, son? You've gone pale as a fish belly."

Gilbert reached for his water glass and took a long, slow sip.

"The Hannerford Ball?" he said faintly.

"Yes. You must have attended as an undergraduate, didn't you? Most of the students go."

"Yes," Gilbert forced himself to reply. "Yes, I went. I . . . just . . . didn't realize it was that time of year already."

"Time does fly when you're spending every daylight hour in class," Dr. Edmonds sympathized. "It will be good to get a change of scenery. Give you a break. The alumni shouldn't be much trouble, and after supper you can have the rest of the evening to yourself."

"That sounds wonderful," Gilbert lied.

* * *

It was nearly ten o'clock when Gilbert finally reached his dormitory. Heavy-eyed and bleary, he could hardly wait for the sanctuary of bed and oblivion. Perhaps he could put off his usual Sunday studying tomorrow morning and sleep in a bit.

Just as Gilbert gained the stairs, a shadow shifted under the darkened archway. He jumped backward and nearly slipped on the steps. The figure moved again and began to moan.

The flood of adrenaline ebbed, leaving Gilbert feeling both drained and irritated. The moaning might not be coherent, but he had heard enough of that voice to know it anywhere.

"Get up, Edgar," he hissed, prodding the shrouded mass on the stoop with the toe of his boot.

Edgar Wilson merely groaned. Gilbert narrowed his eyes, attempting to peer through the darkness. He leaned forward.

"Are you hurt? Or only drunk?"

The stench that assaulted him answered that question easily enough. It was the smell of back alleys and the morning after football victory celebrations. Gilbert curled his lip in disgust.

Resigned to the fact that he could not leave Edgar on the doorstep in November, no matter how much he might want to, Gilbert hoisted his afflicted lab partner to his feet. Edgar mumbled as Gilbert half-propelled, half-carried him across the threshold, the only intelligible words being, "That's the spirit!"

"Oh, I'll give you the spirit," Gilbert muttered. What floor was Edgar's room? He'd better hope it was only the second.

Edgar seemed to wake a bit in the warm and lighted foyer. He took more of his weight on his own two feet and seemed to recognize Gilbert.

"Tha' you, Blythe? Good man, good man."

"Edgar, what number is your room?"

"Room? What room?"

"Blast it, Edgar," Gilbert growled. "Just give me your keys."

Edgar fumbled in one coat pocket, drawing out a handkerchief and a handful of change. He giggled and tried the other pocket.

"Well, now, there's the keys!" he beamed with giddy pride as he held them out.

Gilbert quickly located the key that matched his own, except that it was etched with a tiny number 417. Fourth floor, then.

"Up you get," Gilbert grunted as he dragged Edgar up the stairs.

Twice, Edgar tripped and nearly dragged them both down to the bottom. But after ten minutes of heavy work, Gilbert finally reached the promised room. With difficulty, he unlocked the door and stumbled through.

Edgar's room was much smaller than his own and much less tidy. Clothes were tossed over the backs of chairs, crumpled papers surrounded the wastebasket, and the bed was unmade. This last was lucky, at least. Gilbert flung Edgar onto the bed and straightened up to regain his breath.

"Alright, Edgar," he huffed. "Sleep it off."

Gilbert turned to go, but conscience tugged. Looking back into the room, he groaned in frustration. He couldn't just leave Edgar like this. What would his mother say if she learned that he had let someone choke to death?

 _In my defense . . ._

But it was no use. He couldn't leave anyone in this dangerous condition, not even Edgar Wilson.

With a growl of frustration, Gilbert turned back toward the bed. He found a lamp and lit it, then pulled off Edgar's shoes and coat and propped him up on his side using pillows and dirty laundry. A serving tray on the desk was arrayed with bottles and glasses. Gilbert took a glass and filled it with water from the pitcher on the washstand. He held it up to the lamp; it looked clean enough.

Dipping his long, brown fingers into the water, Gilbert flicked drops into Edgar's face.

 _If this doesn't work, maybe I can slap him._

Edgar roused enough to take a few sips of the water, though he grimaced and resisted after the first.

"Just drink it," Gilbert ordered. "You need to stay hydrated."

"Blythe?"

"What?"

"I'm gonna be sick."

Gilbert shoved the wastebasket into place just in time.

Shortly thereafter, Edgar lapsed into sleep, snoring like a steam locomotive. Gilbert settled himself in the desk chair with his arms crossed, staring malevolently at his hapless classmate. Three floors below, a clean, warm bed awaited him and would continue to wait.

His thoughts drifted. What was it she had told him once, long ago, after she had given up the Avery Scholarship to stay home with Marilla? That _she had looked her duty courageously in the face and found it a friend — as duty ever is when we meet it frankly_.*

Gilbert snorted.

 _Duty indeed._

What good was any of that? What good was a code of honor and manners that made it impossible for him to leave a drunken classmate to his own stupidity, but had kept him from her sickbed for weeks? What good was the sort of duty that had insisted that they work and wait, rather than just eloping and damn the consequences?

 _Responsibility._

Oh, he'd always been responsible. Completely trustworthy. A perfect gentleman. And what had it gotten him?

He would go to the Hannerford Ball next week. It was his duty. What did it matter if every nerve and muscle in his body screamed in protest? He would go and smile and play a part, all the time knowing that it was a ridiculous farce.

And yet, he could not escape it. It wasn't only the expectations of others that held him captive. His own expectations of himself would not allow for defeat. If he gave up now — gave up the Cooper Prize, gave up medical school, and just ran away — could he live with himself?

For one brief, glorious moment, Gilbert allowed himself to contemplate a wholly different life. He could go home and take over the farm. Better yet, he could go to sea like Captain Jim. He had a strong back; why shouldn't he work on an ocean liner or in a logging camp? Leave all of this behind and disappear into the wide world where no one knew him and he knew no one. Where no one expected anything of him and he could never fail to meet those expectations.

Even as he dreamed it, the bubble burst. Perhaps someone else could begin again like that. Gilbert knew it wasn't in him. He couldn't run away, not even to save himself. He knew it as certainly as he knew his own name, but there was no pride in the knowledge. In fact, he felt ashamed of his inability to act as master of his own fate. If he had a son, what would he want for him? To see him fulfill his duty, no matter what it cost him? Or for him to have the self-respect to know when enough was enough?

Gilbert groaned. It was an impossible trap.

He might want to escape, but he could never allow himself to back down. However bad responsibility might be, shirking was far, far worse. Not just because he would disappoint himself and others. Gilbert closed his eyes.

 _I'm meeting with Timothy this afternoon._

 _No, you're not, Gil. You're not well enough to do that._

 _But I've had to cancel on him twice now, and his exams are coming up in a week._

 _I already told you I would go, remember? Who is trying to do everything on his own again?**_

He had failed to live up to his responsibility once. And he could never, ever forgive himself.

Across the room, Edgar stirred. Gilbert blew out an exasperated breath.

 _Duty calls._

* * *

* _Anne of Green Gables_ , chapter 38

**Catiegirl's "When Tomorrow Comes," chapter 17


	16. Chapter 16: The Hannerford Ball Again

Content warning: grief, anxiety

* * *

Chapter 16: The Hannerford Ball Again

* * *

The clothes made Gilbert feel nauseous. He looked smashing in the expensive, tailored tailcoat, satin waistcoat, and crisp white shirt that Mrs. Gordon had selected for Jo's groomsmen last spring. The slim fit through the waist and the long swallowtails accentuated Gilbert's broad shoulders and his height. The coat was perhaps a bit looser than it had been in the spring, but it was still the most impressive suit of clothes he had ever owned. Even Roy Gardner would have been proud to wear it.

It made his skin crawl. The whole ensemble had been packed away in a garment bag since Phil's wedding. Last week, after Dr. Edmonds had made it clear that his attendance at the Hannerford Ball was required, Gilbert had removed the suit from the deepest recesses of his wardrobe and hung it on a hook to air. It soon became quite clear that this was untenable. He could not study with that thing drawing his eye. He certainly would not attempt to sleep in its presence. Aggravated, Gilbert had stuffed it back into the wardrobe, not caring whether he attended the Hannerford Ball reeking of mothballs.

Now, he was dressed. Ready, in some manner of speaking. He had contemplated getting well and thoroughly drunk, but decided that, all things considered, he would rather have his wits about him tonight.

On the dormitory steps, Gilbert encountered Edgar Wilson, looking dapper in a black greatcoat and top hat.

"Blythe! Look at you, all done up. Hardly recognized you, old chap. Going to pick up a young lady, perhaps?"

Gilbert scowled at Edgar, who merely laughed.

"Alright, don't growl. I'm going stag as well. Alas, the fair Louisa had accepted a previous offer."

Gilbert pressed his lips together, not sure he could muster patience for Edgar's prattle on top of everything else. There seemed to be no alternative, though, as both were clearly bound for the same destination. As they swung out into the street, Edgar continued to chatter along obliviously.

" . . . four years since I attended a Hannerford Ball. You must have been there, if you went as a first-year, Blythe. I was a senior, of course. There was this gorgeous blonde who . . ."

Gilbert made a concerted effort to be bad company, but Edgar did not appear to notice. He talked ceaselessly until they reached the Grand Ballroom.

Everything was just as it had been, though absolutely nothing was the same. Chandeliers glittered from the festooned ceiling, stained glass shimmered in all the colors of the rainbow, guests in tails and evening gowns laughed and flirted over dance cards.

Gilbert knew at once that his mother's good advice was not applicable to this situation. There was a wrong way to do this, a very wrong way, and he was doing it.

But here was Edgar leading him over to a knot of medical students by the dressing rooms, and here was Dr. Edmonds and his charming wife, and what could Gilbert do but smile and nod and grit his teeth against the panic rising in his belly?

When the orchestra struck up the first dance, Gilbert sought refuge behind a pillar. It was too similar, and yet so horrifically different. He blinked hard, but could not clear the echoing voices.

 _I believe the first really is my duty to occupy as your escort, as well as the one immediately before supper._

 _You are correct, sir._

 _And I would suppose the one right after supper just makes sense._

 _Right again._

 _However, if we also want to leave early . . .*_

Gilbert pushed past several ladies in his rush to reach the dressing room, causing them to shriek and their escorts to shout after him. He collapsed into an empty chair in the corner and hung his head between his knees.

The only anchors handy at the moment were his shoes, so he studied them as assiduously as if they had been diagrams of the human nervous system. He had never had occasion to count the buttons before.

Sometime later, Gilbert came up for air. His breathing was calmer, his pulse had slowed. He removed his gloves and flexed his long, brown fingers, willing them back into loose dexterity.

 _Get out of here._

But he couldn't. He had to sit with the alumni and smile and make nice at supper. It was one of his principal social duties for the year in connection with the Cooper Prize. If he did not meet his obligations, he would lose the scholarship and go home in defeat. At the moment, that seemed an attractive prospect.

"Gilbert?"

He squinted up, hoping devoutly that Edgar Wilson had not tracked him down. Instead, he stared into the broad, blue-eyed face of Moody Spurgeon MacPherson.

"Gil? Are you quite alright?"

Gilbert thought he had never been so glad to see good old Moody, objectionable ears and all. Here, at least, was a friend.

"Hello, there, Moody," he said, a little faintly. "I . . . I think I may be a bit ill."

"Well, let's get you home at once," replied Moody, moving to take his old friend's arm.

With an effort, Gilbert straightened in his chair. "Believe me, I'd love to go. I only came tonight because I have to meet with some of the alumni over supper. The Dean of the Medical School is expecting me and I can't disappoint him."

Moody frowned. "I don't know that you'll do yourself any favors showing up looking like that. If you won't let me take you home, at least let me help you clean up a bit."

Gilbert nodded, grateful. "Could you maybe get me a glass of water?"

Moody scampered off, returning a few minutes later with the water and several napkins. While Gilbert sipped, Moody drenched one of the napkins in the sink, offering it to Gilbert to swab his face.

"Thanks, Moody," Gilbert said, meaning it.

"You're looking a bit better," Moody allowed. "Is there anything else I can do?"

Gilbert was on the point of saying _no_ when a thought occurred to him.

"Do you want to come to supper with me? I can introduce you around, which will at least give me something to say, and I'm sure the alumni would have just as much interest in theology as in medicine. After all, these are members of the Cooper Prize board, so they're college alumni, not doctors."

Moody's eyes had widened to the limits of their modest capabilities. "You want me to meet all those important people? A Dean?"

"Sure! You'll do splendidly. And perhaps I can get through the meal if you can help keep up the conversation."

Moody looked decidedly alarmed, but nodded his assent.

They stayed in the dressing room for the final two dances of the first set, tidying their hair and speaking lightly about coursework. Gilbert found himself relaxing just a bit, able to relinquish conscious control of his breathing enough to follow Moody's explanation of the senior thesis required of all theology students.

When the last song died away, Gilbert and Moody set out for the supper rooms. Determined not to let his focus slip, Gilbert looked neither to right nor left, inadvertently snubbing several acquaintances as he cut across the ballroom.

They found Dean Blanchard already seated at a table with Dr. and Mrs. Edmonds and three mature couples in impeccable attire. The party rose to their feet as the younger men approached, and introduced themselves with smiles and nods. Gilbert presented Moody as a friend from home who was preparing a senior thesis on the emerging field of biblical criticism. He was gratified to see that several of the alumni seemed genuinely interested in this topic and kept up a steady stream of conversation regarding recent developments in archaeology and philology.

Gilbert, seated between Mrs. Edmonds and the most distinguished-looking alumnus, spent the meal answering relatively simple questions about his coursework. Though he did not eat much, Gilbert found it easy enough to praise the newly renovated chemistry laboratories and assure Dean Blanchard that yes, the medical students were receiving as much practice in bandaging as any of them could have wished. More than once, he glanced gratefully across the table to see Moody in his element, discussing recent excavations in Jerusalem with his half of the table.

The supper hour passed more easily than Gilbert could have hoped. When it was time to return to the ballroom, relief added a certain sparkle to the valedictory smiles he bestowed on the party. Dean Blanchard shook both Gilbert's and Moody's hands with enthusiasm, assuring them of a job well done.

"Moody, old boy, you were brilliant," Gilbert said as they beat their retreat. "I owe you a tremendous favor, wherever and whenever you decide to cash it in."

Moody blushed. "Aw, thanks, Gil. It was nothing. I had no idea that ladies were so interested in Greek translation. But how are you feeling? Should I walk you home?"

"No. Thank you, though. I'm just going to find my coat and then I'm off straight away." Gilbert hesitated. "Moody?"

"Hm?"

"You're going to be a great minister."

Moody's tiny eyes went round at this unexpected compliment. He had always held Gilbert in some awe, and felt his own conviction in the career that had been chosen for him bolstered by his friend's faith.

Gilbert saw his astonishment and chuckled. "Go dance, Moody. I'll see you around."

* * *

Gilbert wove his way through the dense crowd. He could feel the night beckoning him away from the press of people in the gleaming ballroom, and couldn't move half fast enough. He had nearly reached the door when someone stepped directly into his path.

"Gilbert Blythe!"

He recognized the woman at once. Tall and handsome, with masses of sleek, dark hair and an elegant purple gown that showed off her sumptuous figure. Christine Stuart.

Gilbert turned to flee, but he was hemmed in on one side by columns and on the other by an unbroken stream of merry partygoers. No escape.

"Gilbert! Oh, I hoped I would see you here!" she declared.

"I can't say the same," he replied icily. "Goodnight, Miss Stuart."

"No, Gil, wait!" Christine reached forward as if to place a hand on his arm. Gilbert flung a scorching look in her direction and flinched away.

"I have nothing to say to you, Miss Stuart."

"But I have. Gil, listen. I heard about Anne. And I am so, so sorry. I've felt dreadful over what I said at the ball last year, and I just want you to know that I would take it all back if I could."

Gilbert blinked and found himself in the same place, a different time. Christine in blue, rather than purple, leaning into his face with a spiteful hiss.

 _I hope she destroys you.**_

Another blink and the room resolved itself into present reality. Gilbert clenched his teeth and met Christine's eye with a blazing fury that made her take a step backward.

"You got what you wanted, Christine," he growled.

"No!" she protested "I never . . ."

"Hey, Blythe! Who's your friend?" interrupted Edgar Wilson, popping up out of nowhere. Somehow, he seemed oblivious to both Gilbert's ferocious expression and Christine's fright.

Gilbert composed himself slightly, though he still held Christine's horrified gaze.

"Edgar Wilson. Meet Miss Christine Stuart. Why don't you take her away for a dance?"

Edgar grinned. "Cheers! A pleasure to meet you, Miss Stuart."

Christine made a small curtsey and took Edgar's arm, only too happy to make her escape. She gave Gilbert one last pleading look, but found no trace of forgiveness in his face.

As Christine and Edgar glided toward the dance floor, Gilbert knew that he was going to be sick. He dashed for the door and burst out into the chill November evening without his overcoat. The starlit night was crisp and sparkling, just as it had been a year ago. He made it to a bush without a moment to spare. A startled passerby commented to his companion that really, these college boys could never hold their liquor. How embarrassing for all who wore the white and scarlet.

* * *

Gilbert sat before the fire in his own room, his tie hanging open, his shoes discarded on the carpet.

He should never have gone to the ball. Should have found somewhere else to be tonight, rather than leaving early and coming home to his empty room.

Gilbert reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out the little square of green-embroidered linen that lived there. Running his fingers over the stitches, he closed his eyes and let himself remember.

 _Please tell me you still love me.***_

All the world had opened before him a year ago. After years of misunderstanding, they had found one another at last. For a little while.

Lines from Tennyson formed themselves in Gilbert's brain:

' _Tis better to have loved and lost  
_ _Than never to have loved at all._

Was it true? It seemed obscene to think that this was _better_ than any alternative, no matter how grim. Maybe those were just the lines everyone remembered. What came before and after?

Try as he might, Gilbert could not remember the rest of the verse. He hadn't read it since the old days at Queen's. Oh, well, it didn't matter. What did Tennyson know about it anyway?

Gilbert tried to banish the unfinished verse from his mind, but it stuck like a grain of sand in his brain until he concluded that it would be easier to look it up and put the dangling verse to rest, rather than letting it linger.

He crossed to the corner where a neatly packed crate of unused books served as a makeshift shelf, and cleared away more books piled on top. There was a volume of Tennyson here somewhere . . .

Extracting the dusty tome from its similarly neglected fellows, Gilbert carried it to the sofa and riffled the pages. He was sure he would have marked this passage.

After several minutes, he found it, a tiny arrow in the margin marking the selection they had studied.

 _I hold it true, whate'er befall;  
_ _I feel it, when I sorrow most;  
_ ' _Tis better to have loved and lost  
_ _Than never to have loved at all._

Gilbert flipped back, wanting more context for the verse. He had forgotten how long this poem was; they must have studied only excerpts at Queen's. He found the title at last: "In Memoriam A.H.H." There, in the margins, in his own schoolboy script, were penciled comments about meter and rhyme, analysis of syllables, a note about "enjambment," whatever that was.

Gilbert scanned the first canto, looking for something familiar. It caught him in the chest like a blow.

 _I held it truth, with him who sings  
_ _To one clear harp in divers tones,  
_ _That men may rise on stepping-stones  
_ _Of their dead selves to higher things._

 _But who shall so forecast the years  
_ _And find in loss a gain to match?  
_ _Or reach a hand thro' time to catch  
_ _The far-off interest of tears?_

Engrossed, he began to read in earnest. He had never read this poem before, or, if he had, he had never absorbed it. Canto upon canto, Tennyson mourning the loss of his beloved friend, dead at twenty-two, in endless cycles of bewildered grief. Some of it was so familiar that it struck Gilbert to the very heart.

 _I climb the hill: from end to end  
_ _Of all the landscape underneath,  
_ _I find no place that does not breathe  
_ _Some gracious memory of my friend;_

 _But each has pleased a kindred eye,  
_ _And each reflects a kindlier day;  
_ _And, leaving these, to pass away,  
_ _I think once more he seems to die._

On and on, Tennyson wrote. Through one Christmas season, then another, and a third. There was no end to the poem and no end to his grief.

Somewhere in the hundred and first canto, Gilbert noticed tears splashing down onto the pages.

 _Unwatched, the garden bough shall sway,  
_ _The tender blossom flutter down,  
_ _Unloved, that beech will gather brown,  
_ _This maple burn itself away._

He pressed the handkerchief over the page and wept.

 _Had she always read this way?_

To Gilbert, poetry had always been something to argue over, analyze, dissect. Rarely had a poem touched his emotions. Now, lines that had once been schoolroom assignments spoke to him as one human soul to another. Gilbert marveled at the electric connection through the once-dull page. Across time and space, someone saw him.

It had never been mere drill for her. As a B.A. with High Honors in English, she could analyze a poem to the last jot and tittle, but poetry had always been more to her than that. It thrilled her to her very soul.

Was this how it felt to read with your heart agape? Gilbert had thought of her as sensitive; perhaps she was only cracked open in a way he had not understood. To read this way was breathtaking. Terrifying. It was like standing naked before all creation, reading the sublime tragedy written in every mortal wing and petal.

All through the wee small hours of the night, Gilbert read. When the Sabbath dawn found him, he had fallen asleep on the sofa, his hand still pressed over the open page.

 _I sometimes hold it half a sin  
_ _To put in words the grief I feel;  
_ _For words, like Nature, half reveal  
_ _And half conceal the soul within._

 _In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,  
_ _Like coarsest clothes against the cold:  
_ _But that large grief which these enfold  
_ _Is given in outline and no more._

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Alfred, Lord Tennyson completed "In Memoriam, A.H.H." in 1849, sixteen years after the death of his friend (and brother-in-law-to-be) Arthur Henry Hallam. It is best remembered for the lines "' _Tis better to have loved and lost /_ _Than never to have loved at all"_ and the phrase " _Nature, red in tooth and claw_."

I don't know whether "In Memoriam, A.H.H." is one of the sources of LMMontgomery's "kindred spirits," but given its meditation on "kindred souls" and the frequency with which Montgomery cited and quoted Tennyson, it seems like it may have been one of her influences. ("Kindred souls" and "kindred spirits" show up in many poems associated with Romanticism, including Thomas Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" (1751).)

The most extensive reference to Tennyson in Montgomery's novels is Anne's "Lady of Shalott" incident in AoGG, but there are many others. Roy introduces himself to Anne by referencing a lecture she gave on Tennyson; Gilbert gives Anne a volume of Tennyson as a gift; Gilbert even quotes some lines of Tennyson during their argument over whether he should tell Leslie about the possibility of curing Dick Moore. _Anne's House of Dreams_ is saturated with Tennyson — lots of "Crossing the Bar." Montgomery's characters often have strong feelings about Tennyson, sometimes vacillating between ardent admiration and frustration so profound that they throw his books out of windows.

 _*/**/***_ Catiegirl's "One More Day With You," chapters 21-23. If you are reading this but haven't read the "One More Day With You"/"When Tomorrow Comes" series, you should go get started on that right now.


	17. Chapter 17:The Merry Merry Bells of Yule

Content warning: grief, nightmares

* * *

Chapter 17: The Merry Merry Bells of Yule

* * *

On Christmas Eve, Gilbert drove Uncle Dave's buggy down the harbor road toward Four Winds Point. The Blythes had invited Captain Jim to spend Christmas with them, but as it looked likely to squall before morning, Aunt Katherine had asked Gilbert to collect the old man a day early and invite him to stay the night. There was plenty of room, even with Gilbert, John, and Cora staying.

As the horse jogged down the hill from the old Morgan place, the bells of both the Presbyterian and Methodist churches rang out the first of their Christmas peals.

 _They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy,  
_ _The merry merry bells of Yule.*_

Would Tennyson never leave him in peace? Gilbert felt quite haunted enough without poems tiptoeing through his thoughts unexpectedly. He couldn't seem to help it, though. _How dare we keep our Christmas-eve_ . . .

Snippets of Tennyson continued to flit around him until the buggy reached the fork that would have taken him past Miss Elizabeth Russell's house. Gilbert craned his neck to peek, but knew that the house would be dark. Miss Russell had gone to visit friends in Charlottetown as usual, in defiance of Dr. Dave's most cantankerous warnings.

"That exasperating woman!" David Blythe had stormed the previous afternoon. "I told her plain that she'll never live to see another Christmas if she insists on gallivanting around the countryside in her state of health. And do you know what she said to me? Just looked me straight in the eye and laughed and said in that case she'd better do all she could to enjoy _this_ Christmas!"

Miss Russell had left a gift for Gilbert: a brown paper parcel containing a yellow-covered novel and a note.

 _Dear Mr. Blythe,  
_ _I imagine that you must have a dreadful lot of reading to plow through at medical school, but do give this a try. You'll never guess who really stole the Duke's ruby-headed stick pin. I never do, and I've read it three times!  
_ _Merry Christmas from your friend,  
_ _Miss E. Russell_

Thought of Miss Russell banished some of the more morose tetrameters still lingering in Gilbert's vicinity. The harbor really was enchanting at this time of day, calm with thickening ice tinted apricot by the early winter sunset.

When Gilbert pulled the horse to a halt at the Four Winds light, he saw that Captain Jim already had company. The old sailor was standing in the doorway, speaking with a woman Gilbert recognized as the golden-haired sea spirit he had seen last summer. Gilbert touched his cap to her and said hello, but she merely looked at him with such undeserved scorn that Gilbert didn't know whether to be offended or intrigued. She made a terse farewell to Captain Jim, turned without a word to Gilbert, and marched briskly up the lane.

"Never you mind Leslie," Captain Jim clucked. "She gets a mite touchy around Christmas time, poor girl."

"What's wrong with Christmas?" Gilbert asked.

"Nothing, except mebbe for them that remembers happier ones."

Gilbert cleared his throat and pressed a fingernail into his palm. "I've come to ask you to stay the night at my Aunt and Uncle's house," he said. "They're afraid it will snow tonight and you might not be able to get through tomorrow."

"Mighty fine of them!" beamed Captain Jim. "You jest wait here, Mr. Blythe, while I pack up a few things and feed the First Mate, and I'll come along with you directly."

Gilbert settled himself to wait in front of Captain Jim's driftwood fire. He set aside his hat and dove gray scarf, thinking of the golden-haired woman. He was sure she had a grief of her own — he had read it in every angle of her bearing on the rock shore the first time he had seen her. What must it be, he wondered, that made her the sort of person who was known to all and sundry as someone for whom Christmas was nothing but a dismal anniversary?

 _That could be me_ , he thought fairly, thinking of the wary way his parents had been treating him since his arrival yesterday.

So far, he had managed to avoid spending too much time thinking of last Christmas Eve. The electric barrier was up, crackling any time he got too close. It helped to be in Glen St. Mary, away from the familiar paths and lanes that would all lead, eventually, to the Avonlea schoolhouse.

 _That won't be me._

If only he could get through the next two evenings in reasonable good humor, perhaps his parents would stop using their gentle voices in his vicinity. Perhaps the others would never know what the day meant to him. Perhaps, someday in the distant future, he could be someone who kept Christmas.

But only if he put on a brave face today.

* * *

It was not as difficult as he had feared. The promised snow began to fall just as Gilbert and Captain Jim drove up the Glen street. At Uncle Dave and Aunt Katherine's, blazing fires glowed genially in the hearths and laden trays bore a yuletide feast that no six revelers on earth could have consumed. Captain Jim delighted the company with some of his most uproarious tales of adventure. Gilbert made a special point to smile and nod when he knew his mother was watching, which was constantly.

Gilbert was grateful when John suggested that they all retire early. He bid everyone good night and made straight for his room. Safe inside, he bolted the door and slumped against it, exhausted.

* * *

He was sitting in a church. Not a homey little wooden church, but a huge, impressive cathedral with stained glass windows and a cavernous ceiling soaring somewhere out of sight. The impossibly long pews that spanned the nave were crammed with people in fine suits and elaborate hats, dressed for some important occasion. Gilbert himself was seated in the middle of one of these pews, seemingly miles from either aisle.

Bells clanged to life in a joyful peal and a procession began. People in the front pews filed out of their seats to approach the altar, then turned and shuffled back to their places. As each pew emptied, the one behind stood and added itself to the undulating queue.

 _Well, this is foolish_ , thought Gilbert, the voice rising from the unplumbed depths of his Protestant soul. He did not rise when his turn came, but obliged the people in his pew to climb over and around him on their way to the aisle and again when they returned. Of all the thousands, he alone sat motionless. He did not bow his head in prayer, but let his eye slide over the waves of people filtering down from the back pews.

Then he saw her. A slim young woman in green, with apple blossoms in her ruddy hair. It couldn't be anyone else. Even if not for the splash of red amid the throng of blonde and brown, he would have known her gait anywhere. Gilbert stared, openmouthed, rising from his seat. She reached the front and turned, and yes, there was no mistake. It was her.

Muttering apologies, Gilbert fumbled his way over his grumbling neighbors. The pew was a mile long. He would never reach her. Panic seized him and he began to push more forcefully past the praying forms of the congregation. At last, he tumbled into the aisle and looked for her. She had passed, but he wove through the line to catch up. Her hair shone as a beacon to him, pulling him onward even as he stumbled.

As the others returned to their pews, she made instead for the doors that led to the antechamber. He followed, nervous excitement building with every step.

When he burst through the doors, he found that they were alone in the entryway. She faced away from him, but turned when he whispered her name. For a single second, she looked up at him, gray eyes radiant in her shining face. She parted her lips, whether to speak or to kiss him he could not tell.

Then the earth shook beneath him. The cathedral behind and above him exploded in wreaths of flame and showers of debris. He fell through the world, plunging endlessly, swallowed by the black void.

* * *

*Tennyson, "In Memoriam, A.H.H."


	18. Chapter 18: Examinations

**Author's Note:**

 **I know I said I'd publish less frequently, but I only said that because I was afraid that Part II would be hard to write. Turns out that Part II is nearly done and the rest of Part I is burning a hole in my Doc Manager, so I'm just going to crank this out for you. If you've made it this far (intrepid soul), please let me know what you think in the reviews.**

* * *

Chapter 18: Examinations

* * *

As the Kingsport ferry steamed away from Charlottetown harbor, Gilbert slumped onto a seasoaked bench. Finally, a rest from his holiday.

He remembered a time when vacations had refreshed and replenished him. Those long summers in Avonlea, roaming the fields and forests, soaking the sunshine into his skin and storing it in his bones. He had always tried to follow Miss Stacy's excellent advice: _have the best time you can in the out-of-door world and lay in a good stock of health and vitality and ambition to carry you through next year_.*

Winter holidays had been nearly as good, once upon a time. How restorative it had been to return to Avonlea from White Sands or Kingsport for a week of Christmas celebrations and New Year's dances and snowshoe trips through the ice-crusted firs.

Gilbert had hoped that Christmas in Glen St. Mary might build up his reserves, but it had not. Nothing did. Gilbert felt like a tub with a ring of gushing taps at the bottom, unable to refill. Once, he had been able to open and close those pipes at will, siphoning whatever energy or ambition was required from an ample reservoir. These days, the faucets never seemed to close. Whatever meager trickle he managed to pour in the top ran out immediately.

Gilbert sighed, turning his face into the bracing wind.

* * *

Sometime later, a passerby called his name. The voice was muffled by a thick scarf, but Gilbert would know those ears anywhere.

"Hello, Moody," he said, scooting over on the bench.

"Hello!" Moody replied, sitting and pulling his coat tight around him. "I never expected to meet you here. I thought you must have stayed in Kingsport for the holiday."

"No. My parents and I went to my great-uncle's house in Glen St. Mary."

"Doesn't that sound nice!" said Moody, his round-cheeked smile nearly obscuring his eyes. "We all missed you, of course. Your parents are well?"

"Sure," said Gilbert, "and yours?"

"Never saw them so pleased in my life. Both of my sisters had babies last year, so they finally have grandchildren to spoil. And they're coming down to Kingsport for Convocation in the spring. Pleased as punch."

"Glad to hear it."

"Say, Gil, I've been meaning to tell you. Do you remember the night of the Hannerford Ball?"

"I'm unlikely to forget it," Gilbert replied dryly.

"One of the ladies from supper, Mrs. Whittaker, has invited me to give a lecture about my thesis research for her Ladies' Aid Society. You were right, Gil — they really were interested in learning about new discoveries in the Holy Land!"

"Good for you, Moody. You know, I still owe you a favor for helping me out that night. Just name your price."

Moody waved him off. "No need, Gil. It was no trouble, and I made a good connection into the bargain."

"Still, I would have been in a fix if you hadn't stepped in."

"I was glad to do it," Moody said, shifting on the bench.

"Doesn't mean I don't owe you."

Moody was silent, coming slowly to the realization that for the very first time in his life, he knew something that Gilbert Blythe did not.

"Gil, it's not a matter of paying back," he said hesitantly.

"Sure it is. I like to be square in my accounts."

Moody leaned against the back of the seat. "I know what you mean. But it's not like that. When you see someone in need and you can help, you just help. That's what our chaplain says, anyway. Even if it's frightening or awkward or painful. You just help. That's how you settle your account."

Gilbert blinked.

Moody's round face had gone quite pink.

After a pause, Gilbert said, "I already told you you'll make a good minister, right?"

Moody flushed a deeper shade of fuchsia. "Gotta get through my exams first. And Seminary."

"Exams come for us all," Gilbert commiserated. "The medical school exams are like nothing I've ever seen before. I honestly don't know how I'll get through them."

"You've got nothing to worry about," Moody assured him. "You were always great at exams. Never a nervous wreck like me."

"Oh, I don't know . . ."

"Don't worry, Gil. I'm sure you'll be brilliant. You always are."

* * *

Long after Moody had retired below decks to get out of the wind, his words rang in Gilbert's ears. Not what he had said about debts and accounts, though that would percolate over the coming days and weeks. Instead, it was Moody's leave-taking that rankled.

 _I'm sure you'll be brilliant. You always are._

Gilbert's parents had said much the same at their parting. Uncle Dave had clapped him on the shoulder and stated confidently that Gilbert would lead the first-year class in their winter exams. Didn't he always win whatever laurels were on offer?

Gilbert knew that they meant to bolster his confidence. Instead, he writhed at the prospect of disappointing them all.

Once, at Redmond, he had attended a lecture with Christine. He had little enough interest in music, let alone in hearing professors expound on the subject. But this speech by a world-famous pianist, long retired, had stuck in his mind. Anyone could learn to plink out notes, the pianist had argued, but a true musician absorbed a piece and gave it back, stamped with a unique influence. An artist did not play the notes as they were written; he learned what the composer had set down and then used it to create a work that could not have existed apart from the performer. Recital was not repetition, but something approaching prayer.

Gilbert knew he had no music in his soul. But he remembered that lecture and had often thought that he might understand what the pianist had meant. When he sat for an examination, he did not peck at it, regurgitating crammed information. He would read an essay question, analyze its intent, and then let go, trusting himself. He knew that if he had studied hard, as he always did, he could rely on an alchemical fusion of brain and pen. Preparation and focus would meld into an altered state that blocked out everything but the work before him. Often, he would look up, surprised, at the proctor's call of time. An hour might pass in the blink of an eye, and he would wake to the wider world with many sheets of close-written paper on the desk before him. Somehow, the papers always came back with good marks. Very good marks.

In years gone by, Gilbert had wondered whether that was what it would be like to perform surgery: days or weeks or years of intense preparation distilled into a perfect, timeless moment of virtuosity.

But what if things were different now? He had not sat an exam since last May. In the interim, his brain had become a maze of walled-off corners and hidden traps. Nothing worked the way it had; why should this? He wasn't sure he could even set himself in motion, let alone trust the results. It felt like riding into battle with a blade of grass, arrayed in paper armor.

What would it be like to fail? To write home and tell his parents that he had flunked, that he had absorbed nothing over the past four months? Even to finish with middling grades would be a disappointment to everyone who assured him that he would top the whole class.

And what good was success anyway? There could be none of the expectant, fluttering joy he had always felt when exam results were announced, hoping to hear his name read first or, even better, second.

* * *

* _Anne of Green Gables_ , chapter 30


	19. Chapter 19: Persensit Peste

**Author's Note:**

 **A special thank you to RachWN for reviewing the last line of Chapter 18 (I would PM if I could). I never know whether anyone is picking up what I'm putting down, but I couldn't stop smiling all afternoon knowing that you had seen everything I hoped to put in that one little line. Thank you so much for that reading — it made my whole day.**

* * *

Chapter 19: _Persensit Peste_

* * *

In the third week of March, a howling blizzard descended on the Atlantic coast. Cities plunged into darkness, smothered by black clouds and heavy snow. The wind shrieked in gusts so strong that no one could have walked outside, even if they had been able to open the doors. In the days that followed, there would be reports of ships lost to towering seas, livestock and orchards eradicated, and houses buried so deeply that families were forced to dig tunnels to the surface for air.*

At Redmond medical school, the students who boarded on campus were sequestered in the dormitory. They had fuel enough to keep them warm and food enough to keep them fed, though the staff who did not live onsite would not be able to return for several days. The students organized themselves into shifts to cook what food they could find in the dining hall pantry, a state of affairs that left Gilbert longing after Phil's culinary prowess.

Classes were cancelled, midterms postponed. Many of the students made the most of their chance to catch up on sleep; others got up a rousing game of ninepins in the third-floor corridor.

Gilbert took the opportunity to study. He had indeed finished first in the winter exams, but only just. Despite the weather, May finals were only around the corner, weren't they?

"How can you stand to read that again?" whined an exasperated Edgar, dropping his supper tray on the table next to Gilbert's. "I'm sure you could recite every artery in alphabetical order at this point."

Gilbert looked up from Leidy's _Elementary Treatise on Human Anatomy_.** "Alphabetical's no use, Edgar. Geographical's what you're going for."

Edgar scoffed. "Put it away. It's a holiday!"

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "You should be grateful for the reprieve. How would you have done on the chemistry midterm if Providence hadn't given you this chance to study?"

"Rotten, I expect," Edgar said through a mouthful of beans. "But I won't do much better now."

"Not if you waste all your time gambling on bowling matches, you won't."

"I have an idea!" cried Edgar. "After dinner, I'll go get my notes and you can look them over. Tell me what's important and what I can safely ignore."

"I wasn't aware you kept notes," Gilbert muttered.

"I'll get them now! This food is terrible anyway." Edgar rose from the bench, dropping his spoon on the floor in the process. He was gone before Gilbert could refuse.

* * *

Snow whirled in dizzy gusts outside the windows of Green Gables. It was not yet noon, but a confounding grayness blurred any distinction between earth and sky. What light there was seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, as though all Avonlea were trapped inside a pearl.

Anne's books were spread over the kitchen table, mingling with Gilbert's. Virgil's _Aeneid_ lay open between them as they passed a single notebook back and forth, alternating lines.

 _As soon as Juno, Jupiter's beloved wife, saw clearly that Dido  
_ **Was gripped by such heart-sickness, and her reputation  
** _No obstacle to love, she spoke to Venus in these words***_

Gilbert, who was pretending to look up _egregiam_ in his lexicon, did not notice that Anne had finished her line. When she sighed like that, and leaned her pointed chin on her hand to gaze out at the snow, the Trojan war held no fascination for him.

"Did you find it, Gil?" Anne asked. Her eyes were the exact gray of the squalling snow. How could they be gray today, when in springtime they were the green of willow leaves?

"What?"

"Your word. _Egregiam_."

Gilbert shook himself. "Oh. Sure. Here it is. _Egregiam_. Excellent." He pulled the notebook toward him and scribbled it down.

Anne sighed again. "I wish we could go frolic in the snow, rather than sitting in here with Virgil."

Gilbert quirked a brow at her as a frigid wind rattled the windowpanes. "Out? In this?"

"It's not so bad," Anne replied. "After all, you walked all the way here."

"That's because you left your lexicon at my house. Can't have you falling behind in Classics."

"If your mother let you come, the weather can't be so very terrible."

Gilbert flushed hotly, remembering exactly what his mother had grumbled when she saw him packing up his books this morning. _Persensit peste et cara coniunx_ indeed.****

"Come on, Anne. Two more stanzas and then we'll take a break."

Anne blew a raspberry, but turned back to the work.

 _Dido's burning with passion, and she's drawn the madness  
_ **Into her very bones. Let's rule these people together**

Gilbert lingered over his lines, enjoying Anne's warmth beside him on the bench, fascinated by the way she scrunched her nose while puzzling out a declension.

His attention snapped back to Virgil, though, when he saw that his next line contained the word _hymenaeos_.***** What, exactly were they translating again? Wasn't this stanza supposed to be about a hunting excursion?

Anne worked steadily on, translating Venus and Juno's plot to send a fearsome storm that would to force the infatuated Dido and Aeneas to seek shelter together. She seemed untroubled, but Gilbert shifted in his seat, growing more uncomfortable with each line.

 _Dido and the Trojan leader will reach the same cave.  
_ **I'll be there, and if I'm assured of your good will,  
** _I'll join them firmly in marriage, and speak for her as his own:  
_ **This will be their wedding night** . . .

Instead of finishing his line, Gilbert snapped the notebook shut. "That's enough Latin for today," he declared.

"But Gil, we were so close to the end . . ."

"Nope. I finished it. Now, what do you say to a snowball fight before dinner."

He was rewarded with an eager smile. "And after dinner?"

Gilbert grinned at Anne. "After dinner, geometry."

* * *

*The Blizzard of 1888, March 11-14, 1888

**Joseph Leidy's _Elementary Treatise on Human Anatomy_ was the assigned anatomy textbook for the UPenn medical class of 1889.

***English translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_ (Book IV, lines 90-128) by A.S. Kline, 2002.

**** _Persensit peste_ and _cara coniunx_ are terms from the lines Anne and Gilbert have just translated. Something along the lines of "fatal [heart]-sickness" and "dear wife."

***** _marriages_ or _weddings_


	20. Chapter 20: Easter with Edgar

Chapter 20: Easter with Edgar

* * *

On Easter Sunday, Edgar Wilson sat under the towering maple in front of the dormitory, studying, for once. The April evening was too fine for sitting indoors, but final exams loomed in the uncomfortably near future. Despite six hours of instruction every week and Gilbert Blythe's assistance, he was still a dunce at chemistry. What did electro-magnetism have to do with being a doctor anyway? He groaned, wishing all this hocus pocus with symbols and formulas came as easy to him as it did to Blythe.

Was that Blythe coming up the path now? Yes, and with a scowl on his face that put his usual expression of grim determination to shame. What was wrong with him, anyway?

"What ho, Blythe!" Edgar sang out.

Blythe stopped, composed himself with a very slow blink.

"I'm not in the mood today, Edgar," he muttered.

"Cheer up, man," Edgar teased. "Everyone's gone home for the holiday or been invited out to Easter dinner somewhere. I'm surprised you aren't with your minister friend."

"I just wasn't up for it."

Edgar nodded with exaggerated sympathy. "I've always found Easter a bit too settled for my taste. You'd think the crucifixion and resurrection would make for a rousing celebration, but it all gets covered over with lilies and daffodils and it's a mite too precious. I like a bit more fun to my holidays."

Blythe gave him a long-suffering look. "Fun?"

"You're familiar with the concept, aren't you, old boy? Kingsport's a sleepy old burgh at the best of times and it's a positive tomb on Easter Sunday, but I'm sure I could dig up a pack of cards if I had a mind to."

"You enjoy yourself," said Blythe, moving toward the door.

"Oh, give it a rest, will you," said Edgar, losing a bit of his cheerful demeanor. "I've tried all year to be friendly toward you and you are nothing but a dour old granny. All work and no play. Why, I believe you'd faint if you had so much as a single drink."

To Edgar's surprise, Blythe fixed him with a dark look. "Try me," he fairly growled.

The unexpected steel in this response caught Edgar slightly off his guard. Blythe seldom rose to any bait, but there was fire in his eye now.

"Come off it. I was only joking," said Edgar.

"I wasn't."

Edgar peered at his habitually sullen lab partner, attempting to read his expression, but finding the task impossible. Finally deciding to take him at his word, Edgar ventured a cautious invitation.

"I have a bottle of scotch upstairs. Come share a glass with me."

"Bring it down to my room," Blythe said evenly. "Yours is a rubbish heap."

This was true enough, though Edgar wondered how on earth Blythe knew it. He was halfway up the second flight of stairs before he remembered the incident in November. Well, parts of it anyway. Chagrined, he vowed to cut Blythe a bit of slack in repayment of the debt.

Minutes later, Edgar knocked at the door on the first floor. When Blythe answered and invited him in, Edgar's jaw dropped.

" _This_ is your room?" he asked, staring incredulously at the furniture, the paneled walls, the new-laid fire in the fireplace. "Are you secretly some sort of prince?"

Blyth guffawed. "I won it. Cooper Prize, or hadn't you heard?"

Edgar pursed his lips. "Oh, I heard alright." He settled himself in one of the armchairs, set the glasses on the little side table, and poured generously. "I just had no idea that you could study your way into such accommodations. I might have applied myself to my books in my Redmond days."

Blythe snorted derisively and took one of the glasses before moving a large green-and-white striped hatbox from the sofa and settling himself.

"You're probably right," Edgar agreed. "I'm sure I would have failed chemistry twice over this year if I didn't have you looking over my shoulder."

"Ten times at least," Blythe replied, taking a sip.

"Oh well, not all of us can be geniuses," Edgar said without concern. "In any case, I don't mean to spend my days in the pharmacy."

"I'm not a genius. I just think you need a strong foundation in the basics to be a good doctor."

"The basics? Like memorizing the atomic weights of the hexad metals? You're good at everything, Blythe, so this may come as a surprise to you, but some of us have our gifts concentrated in one or two areas, not spread around quite so prolifically."

Blythe raised an eyebrow at this, but said nothing, only taking another sip of his drink.

Edgar narrowed his eyes. He was not a particularly sensitive man, nor an especially insightful one, but he did possess more than the usual measure of curiosity. Coupled with his general lack of tact and certain other failures of self-control, this inquisitiveness spurred him to speak where others might have remained silent.

"What's your story anyway, Blythe?" he asked. "I don't understand you a bit. An old college friend told me that you were captain of the football team as a freshman at Redmond and one of the Lambs to boot. But I just flat out don't believe it."

"Oh?"

"You're top of the class, but you're dismal. You must have been social once, but it's impossible to pull more than two words out of you at a time. You don't attend any events that aren't strictly required, and when you do, you leave as soon as you can get away."

Blythe frowned. "Maybe I just prefer to be alone."

"And get elected to Lambda Theta? Not on your life."

Blythe was nearing the end of his drink. "That was a long time ago."

Edgar wrinkled his nose. "Four years? That's not long at all. No. Something's happened to you. What is it? Trouble with women?"

A more perceptive man than Edgar Wilson would have recognized the dangerous spark in Blythe's eye and retreated, physically as well as conversationally. Edgar saw only that he had hit near enough the mark to get Blythe's attention. He plunged recklessly onward.

"What happened? Did she pitch you?"

Blythe looked at him with such intensity that even Edgar's armor of ignorance could not absorb the entirety of the blow. For a moment, Blythe seemed on the verge of explosion, but decided that the hapless Edgar was not worth the effort. Draining his glass, he turned hazel eyes to the fire.

"She died."

Edgar's eyes went wide. "I . . . I'm sorry, Blythe. I had no idea."

No response.

"Do you . . . want to talk about it?"

"No."

Flummoxed, Edgar cast around for a change of subject. "Could I refill your glass for you?"

Blythe looked quizzically at the empty glass in question, then at Edgar.

"Yes," he said, rather slowly.

Edgar offered an appeasing smile. "See, you've proven me wrong. A whole drink down and still standing. Er, sitting, that is. But upright nevertheless."

Blythe took a swallow from his second glass and winced slightly.

"Enjoying your scotch?" Edgar asked with bright enthusiasm.

"Difficult to tell," Blythe replied dryly.

"I was right. Not much of a drinking man," Edgar grinned.

"You'd be sober, too, if you grew up in a tiny village where the Temperance Society ruled the roost."

"Thank the Lord in Heaven I did not," replied Edgar with mock gravity.

"They'd have you in the pillory for that, too," Blythe replied. A certain twisting at the corner of his mouth suggested that he might be trying to smile.

"Where is it you're from, exactly?"

"Prince Edward Island. A little village called Avonlea."

"Never heard of it."

"No reason to."

Edgar swirled the scotch in his glass. "So no one there ever got drunk? Ever?"

Blythe was definitely smiling now, though he did not offer a reply.

"Oh, come on, Blythe. What? There's a story behind a look like that."

Edgar waited a moment, then two, and was just about to press again when Blythe responded.

"There was this one time. A girl I grew up with, Diana Barry, well, Diana Wright now. When she was about eleven or twelve, she got drunk accidentally."

"Accidentally? How does an eleven-year-old girl get drunk accidentally?"

Blythe chuckled into his glass. "There's not much alcohol on the Island, but sometimes people make a little wine at home. For medicinal purposes, you understand."

"Indubitably, doctor. A fine medicine indeed."

"Well, a neighbor of Diana's invited her to tea and thought that she was drinking raspberry cordial. But, in fact, she downed three or four tumblers of currant wine. Went home drunk as Noah." He began to laugh. "Her mother was a member of the Temperance Society. She was so angry!"

The change that came over Blythe's face when he laughed was quite amazing. Edgar generally thought of his morose lab partner as an older man, more a peer to the professors than to the students. Now, Edgar remembered that Blythe was probably a year or two younger than himself. Who knew he could laugh?

"Well, you're away from all that now," said Edgar comfortably. "Cooper Prize winner. Star student. You'll have your pick of hospitals when you're through here. You could even go somewhere bigger. Toronto. New York. London."

Blythe shook his head. "You know, I always saw myself as a general practitioner. A country doctor in a little village somewhere."

Edgar was surprised. "I thought they were training you up as a surgeon."

Blythe shrugged. "I figured I would learn what I could, but only so that I could bring new techniques back to a community. There are places on the Island where people don't even have access to appendectomies, let alone some of the newer surgeries."

"So you'll go back to the Island? Operate in a barn or something?"

Blythe stared into his glass. "I don't know. I don't know whether I'm cut out for that work anymore."

He took a long swallow from his glass, then turned the question on Edgar. "What kind of doctor do you want to be?"

"An obstetrician."

Blythe rolled his eyes and guffawed. But Edgar had not been jesting.

"You're . . . serious?" Blythe asked, incredulous.

"Yes. I'm going into obstetrics."

"Why?" Even Edgar could not miss the suspicion in Blythe's tone.

Edgar paused. Edgar rarely paused in any context, but he felt suddenly that it was important to tell this story correctly.

"I've wanted to be a doctor as long as I can remember," he began. "My father wants me to move home to Montreal and take over the bank. Mother would like that, too. After I graduated Redmond, they sent me on a tour of Europe for two whole years, hoping I'd be ready to settle down when I got back. Father was hopping mad when I wasn't. So they sent me to England, to a cousin of father's who is a doctor at a lying-in hospital. As a sort of apprentice, I suppose. I think it was meant to repulse me."

"I take it that it didn't," Blythe said. For the first time in their acquaintance, Edgar had his full attention.

"Hardly. It was wonderful."

"A lying-in hospital was wonderful?"

Edgar grinned. "Have you ever seen a birth, Blythe?"

"No," he admitted, taking another swig from his glass.

Edgar made no effort to contain his enthusiasm. "You will. We start obstetrics next term. And in third year, we get operative obstetrics and gynecology clinic. The first thing you have to know about birth is . . . it's an incredible mess."

"Well, you'll be right at home then," Blythe answered, but without the biting edge with which he usually delivered his comments Edgar-ward.

Edgar was radiant. "You'll see, Blythe. The first time you see a mother hold her baby for the first time. You'll see."

Blythe's smile faltered a little. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "You know obstetrics isn't all happy mothers and fat, healthy newborns, right?"

"I know." Edgar didn't need anyone to tell him that. He had been at the lying-in hospital for a year. The happy mothers and their fat, healthy newborns were the reward for the other, harder work.

Edgar realized that Blythe was looking at him curiously, as though trying to wrap his head around a specimen of unknown provenance.

"Can I get you another?" Edgar asked, offering the bottle.

Blythe thought for a moment. "No. I'd better not."

"Sure?"

"There's no one to sit up with me, and I'd need it if I had another."

"I'd sit up with you, Blythe," Edgar replied stoutly.

Blythe chuckled. "I'd be dead by morning for sure."

"Ah, well," Edgar shrugged, polishing off the last of his own drink. "I'd better retire anyway. Up with the lark to memorize the fascinating properties of molybdenum."

Blythe rose and showed him to the door. "You're right Edgar. Chemistry's not the important part. You know what is?"

"What?"

Blythe gave him a wicked smile. "Not dropping the babies."


	21. Chapter 21:Earliest Possible Convenience

Content warning: death

* * *

Chapter 21: At Your Earliest Possible Convenience

* * *

 _To:  
_ _Mr. Gilbert Blythe  
_ _Hughes Hall  
_ _Redmond Medical School  
_ _Kingsport, Nova Scotia_

 _21 May 1888_

 _Dear Mr. Blythe,_

 _I write to you today in my capacity as the duly appointed executor of the estate of Miss Marilla Cuthbert of Green Gables, Avonlea, Prince Edward Island._

 _It is my solemn duty to inform you that Miss Cuthbert passed away on the 19_ _th_ _day of May of the current year. Her last will and testament leaves the bulk of her estate, including the aforementioned Green Gables, including its lands, water rights, crops, livestock, house, buildings, etc. to her joint heirs, Master David Keith and Miss Dora Keith. As both Master Keith and Miss Keith are minors, they will not inherit the property until they either attain the age of 21 or marry._

 _In the meantime, it was Miss Cuthbert's express wish that a trustee be designated to oversee the estate. This letter shall serve as official notification that you, Mr. Gilbert Blythe, are that trustee. You will hold the estate in trust for Master Keith and Miss Keith until they reach the age of majority, with the power to make any and all decisions regarding the property._

 _You have also been named trustee of a fund in the amount of $2,178.13 for the maintenance of Master Keith and Miss Keith in place of the former trustee, Miss Marilla Cuthbert.*_

 _I understand from your address that you do not currently reside in Avonlea. However, I must beg your pardon in requesting that you present yourself at your earliest possible convenience at my office in Carmody in order to witness and sign the necessary documents relating to the dispersal of the estate and administration of the property and funds._

 _Your obedient servant,  
_ _Mr. Robert E. Spencer, Esq.  
_ _Carmody, PEI_

* * *

 _*Anne of Avonlea,_ chapter 22


	22. Chapter 22: Trustee

Content warning: grief, death

* * *

Chapter 22: Trustee

* * *

There was no mistaking the scent of imminent June on the Island. It was a perfume of lilies and spruces, of plants that were no longer seedlings and earth thick and heavy with mussel mud. It was more than that, though, a certain fugitive sweetness on the breeze that might last only a moment, but heralded the oncoming summer as surely as any calendar.

Gilbert caught it when he stepped off the train at Carmody. He took a steadying breath, tightened his grip on his valise, and went to greet his parents.

John and Cora Blythe met their son with hearty hugs and glad welcome. Gilbert assured them that yes, he had come through his exams just fine, and yes, he could stay only a few days before he had to get back to Dr. Edmonds in Kingsport. They passed the drive home in amiable conversation, never mentioning the purpose of this visit until they were tucked up safe in the sitting room with cups of tea and a spread of pies that would have fed half of Avonlea.

"Alright," Gilbert said, setting down his cup. "Tell me what happened."

For the past year, Avonlea gossip had hummed with speculation about Marilla Cuthbert. Was she only mourning? Was she ill? Was she ever going to leave that house? Or let anyone into it? Rachel Lynde still went to church on Sundays, but she gave a single infuriating response whenever anyone inquired about her friend.

 _Marilla is unwell just now, thank you._

It was clearly true, but so maddeningly vague.

Mrs. Lynde did not look particularly well herself. She did not bustle about the village in her usual manner, did not scold or gossip with the Ladies' Aid, did not appear at sickbeds or weddings or baptisms with gifts of quilts and jam and stern but well-meant advice. Before anyone had noticed the change, she had become an old woman, tending toward frailty. Four years ago, Rachel Lynde had bristled at the prospect of leaving her home in Avonlea; last week, when her daughter Eliza had come to collect her for the move to Charlottetown, she made no protest.

Many neighbors had called at Green Gables, especially in the early months, but all had been turned away. John Blythe himself had tried, even letting himself into the house when he knew that Rachel would be at church. Marilla's door remained firmly shut.

Cora was one of the few who had been granted infrequent, grudging audiences. What she saw there, she hesitated to describe to anyone but John. Even now, when it was all over, she hedged for Gilbert's sake, not sure that she wanted to paint too intimate a portrait of a grief that had frightened her. Gilbert was grieving, yes, but he talked and ate and managed to pursue his studies. Cora was afraid to present him with alternatives.

"The winter was very hard on Marilla," Cora said, opting for half-truths. "After we dug out from the blizzard in March, I went to see her. She didn't want to see me — didn't want to see anyone, really, but I think Mrs. Lynde realized how bad things had gotten. It was clear then that Marilla was declining. She sent for Mr. Spencer and made up her will, but I had no idea what was in it until you wrote. I wish I had. I could have talked with her about it."

"Why do you think she did this?" Gilbert asked. "It makes sense to leave Green Gables to Davy and Dora. But why did she make _me_ the trustee?"

"We were wondering whether she might have written to you," John said.

Gilbert shifted in his seat. "No. I never heard from her. That is, she never wrote to me and I never wrote to her. Perhaps I should have."

Cora and John sat in silence, giving their son space to elaborate.

"I was wondering . . ." Gilbert faltered, "that is . . . I can't help but think . . . that the trusteeship might be a reproach to me."

"A reproach?"

Gilbert exhaled heavily. "It feels like Marilla was saying that I ought to have taken better care of Davy and Dora. That maybe she thought I should have looked after them when she couldn't. I've thought it over from every angle, and I think this might be her way of chastising me for failing them. Of forcing me to come home and take responsibility."

John Blythe's eyebrows rose at this logic, but Cora reached for Gilbert's hand.

"I don't think Marilla meant to reproach you, Gilbert," she said in a gentle voice.

"Then what?"

A strange contortion had come over John Blythe's face. There was little doubt that this was a serious moment, and that it would be inappropriate to smile. Just how, exactly, do you tell a dearly beloved child in obvious turmoil to stop punishing himself long enough to look up from the pebbles to see the shore?

"Gilbert," John said, willing his voice to steadiness, "usually, when someone names you as a trustee, it is because they _trust_ you."

Gilbert stared; Cora pursed her lips in an expression that told John that there would be further discussion of this moment after they had retired for the night.

John stood his ground. "Pull all the faces you want, both of you. I knew Marilla Cuthbert and I know you, Gilbert John Blythe. And I will tell you plain: this is no manipulative ruse. If Marilla named you trustee, it's because she trusted you to do the job. She didn't trust many, and I'd say this was a great show of love on her part. Marilla didn't often put her love into words, and she certainly did not forgive easily. If she had wanted to reproach you, I don't think you'd be in much doubt about it."

This speech did little to alter the matched expressions of consternation.

John Blythe threw up his hands. "Well, sit here and speculate all you want. I propose that we all go to bed. And in the morning, we'll drive over to Carmody and talk to the lawyer. Who, I must remind you, actually spoke to Marilla about these matters and may be able to save us the trouble of any more divination sessions."

"But Dad," Gilbert protested, "why me? Surely Marilla trusted Mrs. Lynde. Or Mr. Barry. Or you, for that matter. Why call me back from Kingsport if not to tell me that I should have been here all along?"

"Your father may be right," Cora admitted, though John could not tell whether she actually agreed with him or whether she had merely decided that unity was the best policy. "I don't think Marilla named you as trustee to admonish you."

"No?" Gilbert muttered. "It certainly feels that way."

"I think . . . well . . . perhaps she wanted to keep these matters within the family."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes at his mother. "You think she saw me as her family?"

"I didn't until a moment ago," replied Cora, her face gone tender. "Not until you said what you did about Davy and Dora. But I understand now: _you_ see yourself as part of that family. No one thinks that the Keith twins are your responsibility, dear. No one except you."

"And Marilla."

"That may be," she conceded. "But I don't think she would have been as hard on you as you are on yourself."

"In any case, we'll know more tomorrow," John said, rising from his seat. "To bed."

* * *

Gilbert lay awake in his childhood bed.

 _Marilla died. She just . . . died._

It wasn't that he was unsympathetic. In fact, Gilbert suspected that Marilla Cuthbert had probably been the only person in the world who had really shared his experience of the past year. He felt a stab of guilt.

 _I should have visited. Should have written._

But how? And what would he have said? Perhaps she wouldn't even have wanted to see him. She hadn't written either.

That was what was so confounding about all this. Not a word from Marilla this whole year and now she had left him in charge of Green Gables? Appointed him to make decisions for the twins? What was she thinking?

 _Perhaps she wanted to keep these matters within the family._

He groaned aloud. It was simultaneously so true and so horrifically, monstrously untrue. He had known that as soon as his mother said it.

Gilbert tossed and turned, dislodging the bedclothes. Try as he might, he could not take his father's advice and put the matter out of his mind until morning.

Worse than that, he could not stop thinking of Marilla, shut up in Green Gables, turning away all offers of help. He sympathized, truly, he did. There was something infinitely seductive about that sort of seclusion.

 _She couldn't live without her._

A year ago, Gilbert would have said the same. He couldn't live without her. And yet, here he was. It was as Captain Jim had said: the spirit might not be willing, but the flesh continued breathing and walking around and sitting exams.

What did that say about him? That he was stronger than Marilla? That his love was somehow less? No, Gilbert would not have wanted to measure himself against Marilla on either score. Perhaps it was only that help had reached him.

 _I might *not* die._

It may not have been a particularly ambitious thought, but it was a new one. In the quiet of his boyhood room, it flared and caught like a lick of flame springing from a new-turned ember.

Gilbert lay still for a long time, getting used to the idea.

Sometime later, he abandoned his attempt at sleep. Throwing back the quilt, he rose and lit the lamp on his desk. He rummaged through his valise, emerging with the book that Edgar Wilson had lent him at the end of term.

"Read something diverting for once, Blythe," Edgar had laughed, flinging _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ at his friend.

Perhaps, if Gilbert were feeling charitable when term started up in the fall, he might let on to Edgar that he was actually enjoying it.


	23. Chapter 23: Family Matters

Chapter 23: Family Matters

* * *

In the morning, Gilbert and John drove over to Carmody to meet with Mr. Spencer. There were documents to read and papers to sign, but the legal transactions were fairly straightforward. Gilbert tried to refuse the small annuity paid out to the trustee, but Mr. Spencer insisted that Miss Cuthbert had made her wishes very clear on that point. In any case, refusal would do no good, as it was a contractual obligation and the money would only sit in escrow if Gilbert did not accept it.

At the end of half an hour, Mr. Spencer handed Gilbert his copy of the trust papers, advising him to secure them in a safe deposit box.

"One more thing, Mr. Blythe," Mr. Spencer said.

He drew a small, square envelope from his desk. It was addressed to Gilbert in a shaky, old-fashioned script. Mr. Spencer handed it over with an apologetic moue.

"I was instructed to place this in your hands," he said. "It's not a legal document, but Miss Cuthbert insisted. I advised her to write to you directly, but I suppose she didn't."

"No," Gilbert answered. "She didn't."

Mr. Spencer rose and extended a hand. "Good luck to you, Mr. Blythe. Please contact me if you have any questions regarding the estate."

* * *

 _15 May 1888_

 _Dear Gilbert,_

 _I am sorry to ask you to take responsibility of so much without speaking with you first. I tried to write to you several times, but could not think what to say. I'm sure that all this has come as a surprise to you._

 _It is my duty to do right by Davy and Dora. I have not been able to care for them this past year and it troubles me greatly. I know that I am dying and I need to know that they will be provided for. They are not old enough to keep Green Gables yet, but Davy will be able in a few years. If Dora gets married or moves away, you can decide whether to sell the place and divide the money between them or let Davy keep the farm and give Dora her half out of the money their uncle left for them. I trust that you will do right by them._

 _It will be some years yet before the twins are old enough to manage on their own. In the meantime, Green Gables is yours. I do not know whether any of this will please you, and rather suspect that it will not. But I could not rest easy without knowing that you are also provisioned in some way. I know that everyone expects you to become a doctor. I hope and pray that you will be. But if that is not possible, you can always come home to Green Gables._

 _Yours Respectfully,_

 _Marilla Cuthbert_

* * *

George Barry carried two more chairs from the kitchen into the sitting room at Orchard Slope. Counting, he found that he was still one short and turned toward the parlor to fetch another.

In the pantry, Elizabeth Barry surveyed the refreshments one more time. A tray of tarts and another of cookies, biscuits and jam, an array of summer sandwiches — cucumber, cheese, chicken salad — and tea, of course. There wouldn't be enough table room for pies, but these should all be easy enough to pass around.

In the garden, Minnie May looked up from the pink rosebuds she was clipping. A shriek of laughter from little Fred Wright drifted up from the bottom of the lane. "Mother!" Minnie May called, "they're here!"

* * *

Gilbert felt self-conscious sitting in the brocade armchair at the head of the room. He had arranged this meeting, but hesitated to call it to order. It was a momentous occasion, bringing together as it did the houses of Barry, Blythe, Harrison, and Wright.

 _And whatever we are_ , he added to himself, looking down at Davy and Dora on the loveseat.

The tea had been served. The sandwiches had been passed. Gilbert looked across the crowded room to Diana, who gave him a little nod of encouragement. He touched his waistcoat pocket for reassurance, then cleared his throat.

"Thank you all for coming today," Gilbert began. All talk and clattering of dishes ceased immediately. "And thank you to Mr. and Mrs. Barry for having us all to Orchard Slope."

The Barrys nodded and smiled.

"In fact," Gilbert continued, his voice somewhat quieter, "thank you all for what you have done this past year. You've all had rather a lot of extra work handed to you unexpectedly, and you've been so generous. Truly, thank you." He cleared his throat twice and resumed a more official tone. "As you know, we are here to discuss plans for Davy and Dora, as well as the future of Green Gables."

Turning to the twins, Gilbert addressed them directly. "Davy, Dora, you aren't old enough to inherit, but I think you should have a say in what happens to you and to the farm. Before everyone else speaks, do you have anything you want to say?"

Dora's eyes were huge. Gilbert thought the poor girl might be petrified, but she managed to shake her head perceptibly. Davy, on the other hand, jumped in with both feet.

"I'm gonna farm Green Gables," he said stoutly. "Don't sell it, Gilbert. I'm nearly thirteen; I can farm and take care of Dora, too!"

Gilbert registered the set of Davy's chin, the tension in hands that were beginning to lose the pudginess of childhood. He shook his head gravely.

"I won't sell Green Gables, Davy. Not unless you and Dora both want me to. And if you want to keep it, we will find a way to maintain it for a few years while you finish school."

"I've had enough school," Davy protested, but Mr. Harrison intervened.

"No, Davy. You must stay in school a few years yet. But you may stay with me and Emily while you do, and I'll teach you what I know about farming."

"Yes," Mrs. Harrison agreed, "we would be delighted to have you live with us permanently, Davy, if you'll agree."

Davy looked immediately to Dora, who still sat rigid on her cushion. Turning back to Mr. and Mrs. Harrison, he said, "I don't mind living with you, that's a fact. But I gotta look after Dora."

"Dora, dear," crooned Mrs. Barry, "would you like to go on living here at Orchard Slope? We love you so, and I know Minnie May wants you for a sister."

Minnie May nodded vigorously.

Dora looked to Davy. She said nothing, but he seemed to understand her.

"We'll be close by, Dora, if I stay at the Harrisons' and you're here," Davy said, speaking only to his sister. "And I'll walk with you to school every day and church on Sundays. Maybe Mrs. Harrison can have you over to Sunday dinner sometimes."

Dora nodded slowly. She slipped a quiet hand from her lap and reached for Davy's hand. He took it more gently than he ever had before.

"Of course," soothed Mrs. Barry, "and Davy is always welcome at Orchard Slope. We'll alternate Sunday dinners, won't we, Mrs. Harrison?"

"That sounds lovely," Mrs. Harrison smiled.

"Is that alright with you, Davy? Dora?" Gilbert asked.

The twins nodded, though Gilbert could not help but notice that their linked hands gripped one another somewhat desperately.

"That's settled, then," said Gilbert, exhaling. "Davy will stay with the Harrisons and Dora with the Barrys. They will both attend school until they are at least 16, and there is money enough from their uncle to send them to Queen's if they choose. Also, the interest from that fund provides a small allowance for their upkeep. I will arrange with Mr. Spencer to have it dispersed to you, Mr. Harrison and Mr. Barry."

The men nodded, Mr. Harrison's round, bald head bobbing in time with Mr. Barry's.

"There's also the matter of Green Gables," Gilbert continued, hoping that no one would notice the way his fingernails dug into his palms. "If Davy wants to farm when he has finished school, I have no objections. But we must maintain the farm until then. I . . . I am not going to live there."

This last pronouncement had slightly more of an edge than Gilbert had intended, but no one seemed to take notice.

"Could we rent it out?" asked Diana. "I think Mr. William Bell might rent some of the fields for a few years."

"We could let some of them lie fallow," added Mr. Barry. "There's little enough stock on the place, but we can sell the horses and take the chickens and geese in with us."

"I think we should keep a crop or two in the ground," replied Mr. Harrison. "Give Davy a chance to work his land a bit and maybe save up a little money of his own."

Fred Wright was nodding. "I'll help you, Davy. The potatoes are already in this year and I can help with the harvest."

"Could we keep Martin on?" asked Mrs. Barry.

John Blythe shook his head. "Probably not, if there's no one at the house to board him. But I'll ask George if any of Pacifique Boute's family are looking for work during harvest — we could put a man up for a few weeks."

"We won't be able to keep Green Gables going at full capacity," said Mr. Harrison, rubbing his watery blue eyes. "But I think that between us we can keep it from running down too much. We can shut up the house and I don't mind looking in on it from time to time."

"Are you very sure you don't want to live there, Gilbert?" asked Mrs. Barry.

Gilbert answered her, though he was looking at his parents.

"No. I'm going to stay in Kingsport."

He held his mother's eyes for a moment. Her faced twitched, as if she had tried to smile and failed.

"Is there anything else that needs settling?" Gilbert asked of the room at large.

"We'll need to pack up the house," said Mrs. Barry. "We can cover the furniture and pack away some useful things for Davy and Dora to have later. And you can take whatever you might want, Gilbert."

The thought made his stomach twist. Somehow, in all his imaginings, he had not pictured what must be the truth. It would all be there, probably still packed in the trunks where he had tossed it in those last days at Patty's Place. All her things. Books, papers, clothes . . .

". . . tomorrow and work together," finished Mrs. Harrison.

Gilbert started, realizing he had missed what she said.

Cora saw his confusion and covered for him. "An excellent suggestion, Mrs. Harrison. Shall we plan to meet at Green Gables tomorrow at nine o'clock? With all of us working together, we should be able to pack everything up in a day."

The general round of agreement obscured the fact that Gilbert did not reply.

The meeting broke up into simultaneous conversations. Minnie May hugged Dora, who smiled rather tepidly, even for her. Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. Barry exclaimed over Baby Fred, who had wriggled down from his mother's lap and was cruising from one chair to the next. Mr. Harrison, Mr. Barry, and Fred huddled together, no doubt making plans for harvest. Mr. Harrison extended a thick arm to Davy, beckoning him into their discussion.

Gilbert took little notice until he felt a soft hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see his mother, with his father standing beside her.

"You did well," she said, squeezing.

John Blythe coughed. "Well, if we're going to spend tomorrow at Green Gables, there are a few things I need to finish up at home this evening. Come help me, Gil."

Gilbert nodded and rose to follow his parents. He had almost reached the hall when Diana intercepted him and laid a hand on his arm.

"What can I do to help?" she asked.

Gilbert had been on the point of deflecting her offer, but he thought of the cold, dark house, and of Marilla alone within.

"Would you . . . take charge of her things?"

Diana did not need to ask for further clarification.

"Of course. Do you want to keep anything?" Her dark eyes sought his, and he met her gaze.

"I'm not sure."

"Alright. I'll take care of them," she said, pressing his arm gently. "See you in the morning, Gil."

"In the morning."


	24. Chapter 24: Green Gables Again

Chapter 24: Green Gables Again

* * *

When the Blythes arrived at Green Gables the next morning, the house was already transformed. Every window had been flung wide to admit the fragrant breeze; cheerful sunshine rushed in at every open door.

Gilbert had expected to find a subdued company picking reverently over the remains of the house. Dreaded it, in fact. He had not expected a bustling, chattering crowd. The Barrys and the Wrights and the Harrisons were there, of course, but so were Fred's parents and the Fletchers. Uncle George and young Jim Wright were already hauling barrels and boxes from the barn to Mr. Wright's buckboard wagon.

"Hello!" called Diana, waving merrily from the porch.

Gilbert raised his hand in an awkward salute, still trying to take in the scene. Aunt Josephine and Mrs. Harrison stood on the lawn, working together to fold a pile of heavy drapes; Mr. Barry and Mr. Harrison were carrying rugs out to the clothesline for Davy to beat; Mrs. Barry, Minnie May, and Mrs. Wright were attacking the kitchen; Baby Fred was sitting on a quilt under the willows, banging madly on pots and pans as Dora clapped along.

"Weren't we supposed to begin at nine?" Gilbert asked Diana, reaching the porch.

Diana shrugged. "I guess we all got our chores done early this morning. Come on, Gil. Fred's in the cellar; he could use your help dragging everything upstairs."

All morning, Gilbert was kept so busy hauling and fetching that he barely had time to notice where he was. He and Fred helped their fathers empty the cellar, sorting everything into piles to be saved, sold, or given away. After that, he captured the hens for Mrs. Barry, loaded the mangle into the Harrisons' wagon, and packed the folded drapes into crates.

At noon, picnic hampers appeared. The hungry workers feasted on sandwiches and cold chicken, jelly tarts and frosted cookies, and some of the best preserves Green Gables had to offer. Gilbert did not contribute much to the festive conversation, but he ate and listened, and never felt the need to run away.

When the meal had been cleared, most of the women went upstairs to tackle the bedrooms, while the men began draping the furniture that would remain in the house. Cora Blythe caught Gilbert's arm and pulled him aside in the shade of the willows.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, her eyes searching his for hesitation or deception.

"I'm fine, Mother. Really, I am," Gilbert assured her.

She nodded, satisfied for the moment. "I need to ask, dear. Do you want to keep anything from the house? Mrs. Barry has taken Dora and Minnie May to pack up quilts to keep for their own houses someday. Mrs. Lynde left a dozen or more. Do you want one?"

"I don't want anything Mrs. Lynde made," Gilbert replied flatly.

Cora was unperturbed. "I understand. But perhaps there is something else. One of Marilla's braided rugs, maybe?"

"I don't really want to bring a rug on the ferry to Kingsport," Gilbert demurred.

Cora held his gaze. "Why don't I keep one for you? I'll put it in the attic at home and you can take it when you have someplace to put it."

For an instant, Gilbert saw it. One of Marilla's oval rag rugs, on the floor before a hearth. He couldn't see anything else in the room, nor picture the house, but the old-fashioned rug was there, warm in the firelight.

Gilbert was not sure whether he actually staggered, or only felt as if he had.

"Ummm . . . yes . . . if you want . . . that sounds . . . fine."

Cora nodded. "Right. I'll do that. Perhaps you could go help Fred with the tables?"

* * *

By late afternoon, Green Gables had begun to feel hollow, like an eggshell with its contents blown out through carefully placed holes. The wagons were piled high, the well-beaten rugs had been rolled up and distributed, and the company had split off into pairs and trios to accomplish some of the more delicate tasks of sorting and packing.

During a lull, Cora Blythe handed Gilbert a tin basin and entrusted him with the unnecessary task of stowing it in the barn. Grateful for the chance to take a break, he complied.

As he approached the barn, Gilbert spied Davy sitting on the top rail of the paddock fence. He did not greet the boy, but hoisted himself up and perched beside him.

"Had enough packing for one day, Davy?"

"I s'pose."

"Me, too."

Gilbert was not accustomed to seeing Davy sullen, and felt a sudden sympathy for every well-meaning friend he had rebuffed in the past year. What would his mother do? Try to get him talking, Gilbert supposed.

"Mr. Harrison told me that the potato crop is coming along fine," Gilbert said. "And Uncle George said that Pacifique Buote's brother is looking for harvest work. So you'll have help come fall."

Davy merely nodded.

"Fred was asking whether you'd like some cherry saplings from their orchard. It takes a few years for the trees to bear fruit, so if you plant them now, they'd have time to grow. I can even help you put some in before I go back to Kingsport."

Davy turned to face Gilbert. "Why don't come back home anymore?" he asked.

Gilbert was taken aback by the directness of Davy's question, but he supposed that Davy never had been one to stand on ceremony. He considered a moment, not knowing how much of his own sorrow to reveal to the child. Was it more important to protect him from a grief that might distress him? Or to show him that adults could feel helpless, too? It seemed unfair to burden a boy not yet thirteen with the weight of his despair.

And yet, when Gilbert looked down at Davy, he saw a particular sort of need in the clear, blue eyes. Here was a child who had never had a father and had lost every mother he had ever known. Yesterday, he had entrusted his twin sister to another household. Who was Gilbert to presume that he knew more of grief than Davy?

Gilbert thought back to his own childhood. He had been Davy's age in Alberta. How he had hated when adults whispered behind closed doors. They had thought that they were protecting him, but they had only frightened him more, making him feel so desperately alone, never knowing just what was happening. If Davy was not ready for a whole truth, at least Gilbert owed him a partial one.

"It makes me too sad," said Gilbert quietly.

Davy nodded solemnly. "Because you miss Anne?"

"Yes," Gilbert said, as steadily as he could.

Davy was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Before Mrs. Lynde went to Charlottetown, I heard her talking to Mrs. Harrison. She said that Marilla died of grief. Can you die of grief, Gilbert? I want to know."

Gilbert chewed the inside of his cheek. "I suppose you can, Davy."

"You won't die of grief, will you Gilbert?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I decided not to," Gilbert replied, thinking that this conversation had gone far enough, but not quite knowing how to end it.

Thankfully, Davy pursued a different train of thought. "I guess I can take over Green Gables when I'm 16 and done with school. Dora can live with me, just like Matthew and Marilla."

Gilbert leaned back, gripping the rail in both hands. "There's no need to rush, Davy. Green Gables will be here for you when you're ready. Mr. Harrison and Mr. Barry and Fred will help you."

"I wish you would come home and help me," said Davy, the naked honesty of his declaration piercing Gilbert like a blade.

"I know, Davy. I'm sorry, but I can't. I have to stay in Kingsport to finish my studies." He paused for a moment. "But I'll tell you what. I'll write you letters if you like. You can tell me how you're getting on in school and all about farming."

Davy's eyes brightened. "Nobody ever wrote me a letter but Anne," he said. "She told me I've got _the gift of writing an interesting letter_."

"Yes," Gilbert replied, smiling at the recollection of some of the specimens he had heard read aloud at Patty's Place, "I believe you do."

"Will you write me doctor stuff?" Davy asked with a hint of his old eagerness. "Milty Boulter has a cousin who struck a hatchet through his foot and had to go to Charlottetown for surgery and Milty puts on awful airs about it. I bet you can tell bully stories like that."

"I'll see what I can do," Gilbert chuckled.

"Will you write to Dora, too?"

"If she wants me to," Gilbert answered, wondering what in the world he would say in a letter to Dora Keith.

"Gilbert?"

"Hm?"

"I'm glad you came home. Even if you don't any more."

Gilbert reached out an arm and pulled Davy into a side hug. He expected the boy to resist, but he did not.

* * *

That evening, Gilbert found a cigar box on the desk in his room. There was a note pinned to the top.

 _From Diana_

He didn't think he could stand to open it. Not in Avonlea. Not in June.

Instead, he slipped it into his valise and covered it with clothes.


	25. Chapter 25: Another Lifetime's Dream

**Chapter 25: Chapter 25: Another Lifetime's Dream**

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. Special thanks to the Guest reviewers I can't thank via PM — I read and cherish all your feedback.**

 **If you've gotten this far (and I can't say how surprised/grateful I am that anyone has), I hope you're getting as much from reading this story as I am from writing it. Gilbert's first year of grief is over. Time to see where he goes from here.**

* * *

Chapter 25: Another Lifetime's Dream

* * *

On the last day of August, Dr. Edmonds called Gilbert to his office. After a year of Saturday lessons and a whole summer of work by Dr. Edmonds' side, Gilbert was as familiar with the office as with his own dormitory. He settled into his accustomed chair and gave Dr. Edmonds his full attention.

"I wanted to talk to you about your work, Gilbert," Dr. Edmonds began.

Gilbert was immediately alert. Dr. Edmonds' tone and his use of Gilbert's first name boded ill and no mistake.

"Have . . . have I done something wrong?" Gilbert asked, feeling instantly nauseous.

"No," Dr. Edmonds gave a half smile. "No, son, you're doing fine. You work hard, you seem to pick up everything I throw your way, and the patients adore you."

Gilbert did not reply, sensing a _but_ in the immediate future.

"But . . ."

 _There it was._

Dr. Edmonds frowned. "Gilbert, why do you want to be a surgeon?"

Gilbert had not been expecting the question and did not have a ready answer. "I . . . I've always wanted to be a doctor. And surgery . . . well, I suppose I liked the idea of always learning new things. Trying new techniques. As you've said, a surgeon is a perpetual student. That appealed to me."

" _Appealed_ in the past tense?"

Gilbert swallowed. "No, it does appeal."

Dr. Edmonds had fixed him with a piercing gaze that made Gilbert want to hide behind his chair.

"So you want to be a surgeon at a prestigious hospital? Experimenting with new procedures?"

"Er . . . not exactly. I mean . . ."

Dr. Edmonds sighed. "Gilbert. Just spit it out, son. Stop thinking of me as your teacher or your supervisor or whatever it is that's making you squirm in your seat. Call me Sam if it makes things easier. Just tell me. What is your ambition?"

Gilbert gulped. He was more sure than ever that he had failed in some way, but he couldn't make out exactly what Dr. Edmonds was driving at. He decided that honesty was the only feasible policy.

"I always wanted to be a small town doctor. A general practitioner. I wanted to learn modern surgery, yes, but I wanted to serve a community, not work in a big city hospital."

"That's a lot of past tense again. What changed?"

"I . . . well . . . it's . . . personal."

"Gilbert, I can't advise you if I don't know what's happened to you. And something definitely has. You're every bit as brilliant as Prof. Frederickson assured me you would be, but you're not the man he described to me. I thought he must have been mistaken, but after watching you for a whole summer I don't think it's that simple."

Gilbert felt a hot flush of shame rise in his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Dr. Edmonds. If I've failed . . ."

Dr. Edmonds cut across him with a swipe of the hand. "You aren't listening, Gilbert. This isn't a test. I'm trying to find out who you are so I can advise you in your career. If you won't tell me what I need to know, then I can't give you proper guidance."

Gilbert looked into Dr. Edmonds' steady gaze. He had worked so hard to live up to everyone's expectations, to never betray weakness where his professors or classmates might notice. Edgar knew a bit, of course, but not everything. Gilbert had thought he had been doing a fairly decent job of meeting his obligations. Hadn't he come first in the final examinations in May?

"Maybe . . ." Gilbert began, "you could elaborate. I must have done something wrong if you're disappointed in me."

"I'm not disappointed, Gilbert," Dr. Edmonds groaned. "And you haven't done anything wrong. It's just . . . well, I can't put my finger on it, exactly. But you have no . . . joy. No zeal. You're good with the patients — you charm them, I've seen you do it. But the moment you turn away, your face falls. It's like it's all an act."

Gilbert felt about eight years old. Surely, the teacher had just caught him putting a beetle down Ruby Gillis' collar.

"It's not an admonishment, son," Dr. Edmonds said, kindly. "I just want to know whether this is what you really want to do with your life."

"It was," Gilbert answered quietly.

"What happened?"

Gilbert took a deep breath and let it out very, very slowly.

The whole story came out then. The end of everything. His uncertainty over returning to school. His flight from Amy Elliott's sickroom. The panic attacks he hid in closets and in the privacy of his dormitory.

"It's not so bad in class," he finished. "But when I'm with patients . . . I don't know. I'm always on edge. I feel as though I could fall apart at any moment. And . . . I'm just afraid of what would happen if I were holding a scalpel when I did."

Dr. Edmonds was leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. He did not smile, but he compressed his lips in an expression of carefully suppressed affection.

"There. Was that so hard?"

"Yes."

Dr. Edmonds did smile then. "Gilbert, you're a fine doctor. And a good man. You wouldn't be so worried about hurting your patients if you weren't. Or about disappointing people, for that matter. But you can't live your whole life hiding like that."

"I had hoped that it would get better," came the faint reply.

"I think it probably will. A year isn't very long at all. But your life has changed. Have you taken the time to re-examine your ambitions? Or are you still chasing another lifetime's dream?"

Gilbert had never put words to that thought, but the moment it struck his ear, he knew it was true.

"I . . . I don't know what I'd be if not a doctor. I never took a very violent fancy to farming."

Dr. Edmonds smiled. "There are many ways to be a doctor, Gilbert. I'm a surgeon because I have to be. I wake up in the morning itching for a scalpel. Don't tell my wife this, but I'm never happier than I am in an operating theatre. It's . . . well, some would call it a calling. You have to find the thing that makes you feel that way."

Gilbert's face had fallen. "Nothing makes me feel that way anymore."

"Maybe not. But I think you should consider trying on some other possibilities."

Gilbert felt completely blank. "Did you have any in mind?"

Dr. Edmonds raised a hand to stroke his chin. "Let's see. You're a brilliant student. Really, remarkable. I can't tell you how Prof. Warren raves about your talent in the lab. We can't let your mind go to waste. But working with patients is a problem. I'm sure you could force yourself to do it, and maybe someday it would get easier. But maybe not. Let me ask you, when you first decided you wanted to be a doctor, what was your reason?"

Gilbert thought back to Fred pushing him into a pond.

"When I was a child, my father was ill. I went with him to Alberta for his health. He recovered, but I was so scared. I wanted to learn how to cure people at home, so no one would ever be sent away."

"And now?"

"I wish I could have found a cure for typhoid. I looked. I read every book and every journal. Tried everything. Nothing worked. And I don't see how I can cure people if I can't bear to be around patients."

Dr. Edmonds was regarding Gilbert with a spark of interest in his clever eyes.

"What if . . ." he said slowly, ". . . you could prevent them from getting sick in the first place?"


	26. Chapter 26: The Path Made Clear

Chapter 26: The Path Made Clear

* * *

On the first day of term, Gilbert found himself standing alone outside a laboratory door. The rest of the second years were headed for their first rotation of special clinics: practical courses tailored to their particular interests. Edgar Wilson was over the moon at the prospect of an extra five hours each week in the obstetrical ward.

Of all the second year students, only Gilbert Blythe had been assigned to this particular course. He wasn't even sure it was a course at all, suspecting that Dr. Edmonds had inveigled Prof. Hawlett to create a custom curriculum for him. Gilbert took a deep breath. Then he raised his fist and knocked on the door marked _Bacteriology_.

* * *

Gilbert flexed his fingers on the desk, checking to make sure they could still bend. Now, in the clear light of day, he wondered whether he were crazy. Who gets up before dawn to shovel extra snow?

"Are you quite alright, Gilbert?" Miss Stacy asked. She had been setting up the classroom for the day, stoking the fire, setting out her books, writing the schedule of lessons on the blackboard.

"Yes, Miss Stacy, I'm fine," he grinned at her, hazel eyes twinkling. "Just tired. Lots of snow to shovel this morning."

"If you say so," she said, with a suspicious eye toward the flush that had not yet receded from his cheeks.

The young scholars of Avonlea were arriving in ones and twos, tracking snow into the schoolroom and collapsing into their seats. It had been a mild winter; in truth this was the first significant snowfall, and many were feeling the burn of snowshoeing muscles too long unused. They were usually a boisterous lot, but the little schoolhouse was notably quiet as the children recovered from their trek.

That changed when Anne Shirley tumbled through the door. "Oh, wasn't that the most splendid walk Diana? I've missed the snow so. That little bit at Christmas was hardly enough to satisfy. It didn't last and it didn't _crunch_."

Anne and Diana removed their wraps and took their seats. Diana wore the same weary expression as the rest of the class, but Anne was radiant. Her cheeks glowed pink and her eyes sparkled with all the starry luster of a new moon sky.

"Had a nice walk, Anne?" Miss Stacy asked, smiling fondly.

"Oh, Miss Stacy, it was heavenly," Anne exclaimed, clasping her hands beneath her chin. "Everything so white and still. I just love the trees when they are veiled in white. It's as if some frost fairy has come and dusted the whole world in beautiful, soft wishes. When it began to snow yesterday afternoon, Diana said that we would have to walk to school by the road today because the Birch Path would surely be blocked. But this morning I assured her that we could make it through on our snowshoes. She didn't want to try, but I insisted. And do you know what, Miss Stacy? When we arrived at the Birch Path, there was a path shoveled right down the middle! Just a thin one, you understand, but enough for one person to pass. Oh, Miss Stacy, I can't tell you how beautiful the Birch Path is in the new-fallen snow! The birches are all white and bowed so that they meet at the top. It is like walking through a cathedral made of spun sugar. I could imagine myself the queen of the winter, dancing through my icy palace. Diana said she can't think who can have done it, and neither can I, but, oh, Miss Stacy, it was very nearly a miracle."

Miss Stacy beamed at Anne. "I'm so glad you enjoyed your walk, Anne. It sounds like it made your day."

"Oh, Miss Stacy, it made my whole week! I've been absolutely desolate since the Christmas concert, thinking that nothing in everyday life could ever match up to the glory of such a thrilling event. But now I've seen the Birch Path in the snow and it's easy to believe again that the world is alive with beauty and we never really know just where we'll find it, do we?"

Miss Stacy patted Anne on the shoulder and returned to the front of the room. Before she called the class to order, she caught Gilbert's eye and gave him a nearly imperceptible shake of the head. Gilbert grinned into his testament, the scarlet of his cheeks not noticeably faded.


	27. Chapter 27: All the News

Chapter 27: All the News

* * *

 _17 October 1888_

 _Dear Gilbert,_

 _That was a jolly letter you sent me last week. I told Milty Boulter about the man who took his finger clean off with the saw. Milty's face went all white til he looked like a cheese. It was great fun to watch him change colors. I didn't read that part to Dora tho because I was scared she would faint._

 _Our new teacher is a man. His name is Mr. Bell but he is no relation to the Bells in Avonlea. Any time he meets somebody new they always ask him how he is connected and he gets very cross. I saw him at church on Sunday. He stomped off when Mrs. Cotton asked him that. Mrs. Harrison would scold me if I stormed around in church like that but I suppose he is a teacher and so maybe no one can scold him but the minister and the superintendent. There now, aint you proud of me that I can spell superintendent? I asked Dora how to do it and she looked in Mrs. Barry's dictionary. I am at Orchard Slope working my lessons. Well Dora is working her lessons and I am writing you a letter but I will do mine when I have finished. I copied superintendent and dictionary from the dictionary._

 _Say Gilbert did you know that Mrs. Wright is going to have another baby? The young Mrs. Wright. Fred's wife not the other one. Dora told me yesterday on the way to school. I gess Minnie May told her or how would she know? I went over to Lone Willow Farm and said I wanted to ask Fred about the potatoes but really I wanted to get a look at Mrs. Wright and I gess Dora is right after all._

 _We got our potato crop in at Green Gables. We finished on Saturday. It was a big job even tho your father hired Boregard Boute to help. I do not know how to spell Boregard and it is not in the dictionary. He is a good worker tho. Fred Wright helped and Mr. Harrison and even Mrs. Harrison and Dora dug potatoes. Mrs. Wright brought us dinner but she did not dig any potatoes. I worked on the harvest every day after school and on Saturday. We had a fine crop and Mr. Barry drove it to Carmody to put it on the train. So by now our potatoes are in Charlottetown or even on a ship. Where do the potato ships go, Gilbert? I want to know._

 _Dora is nearly done with her sums and I haven't started yet so I must close this letter. Dora says thank you very much for the letter you wrote her and for sending her a new hair ribbon. I think it's mean to send Dora a present and not me so you should send me one next time. Not a hair ribbon but something I would like._

 _Your loving friend,_

 _David Keith_

* * *

The Hannerford Ball came and went. Gilbert did not enjoy it, but he endured it with more equanimity than the previous year, even staying after supper to dance with several of the ladies in Dean Blanchard's party. That night, he slept with Tennyson under his pillow, but did not read.

* * *

"Tell us more about your research," Jo said across the Sunday dinner table. "I'm not quite sure I understand how it is supposed to work."

Gilbert set down his fork. "The idea is that you take bacteria — the germs that make you sick — and you weaken them so that they aren't able to make you truly ill. You can inject the attenuated bacteria, that is, the weaker germs, into a person and it teaches their body how to fight off the disease. Then, if the real thing shows up, the body already knows how to repel it."

"Is this based on Dr. Jenner's work? Cowpox, wasn't it?" Phil asked.

"That's right! Cowpox is less virulent than smallpox, so people exposed to cowpox don't really catch it. But the diseases are similar enough that when smallpox shows up, the immune system can fight back. Jenner discovered that a hundred years ago, but we are just starting to work out how to weaken a disease artificially."

"It sounds exciting, Gil." said Jo.

"Well, at this point it's mostly looking into microscopes and mixing chemicals and writing up reports," Gilbert admitted, smiling shyly. "But yes, it's exciting."

"What sort of disease are you working on?" Phil asked.

Gilbert noticed that she looked slightly pale and worried that all this talk of disease was not exactly excellent dinner conversation. With some trepidation, he answered, "Diphtheria."

"That would be a real miracle, if there were a way to prevent diphtheria," Jo said with feeling. "There was an epidemic in Kingsport a few years ago; it hit the children on Patterson Street very hard. One man in my congregation lost his wife and all three of their children. Think of all the suffering your work might prevent! Do you think you will test it on patients any time soon?"

Gilbert frowned. "Probably not. It's very early. We're not even sure how to make certain that the bacteria really is weaker. I'm afraid it will be a long while yet before we're giving injections."

Jo nodded solemnly. Phil rose abruptly and hurried from the room. Moments later, the unmistakeable sound of retching reached the dining room.

Gilbert looked after her in horror. "I'm so sorry, Jo. I shouldn't talk about medical matters at the table. My mother would skin me alive."

Jo had gone slightly green himself, but had not moved from his chair.

"Hadn't you better go after her?" asked Gilbert, puzzled by Jo's apparent unconcern.

"No," Jo muttered. "She's an old hand by now."

Gilbert was not much enlightened. "Is she alright?"

"She's fine," Jo said, meeting Gilbert's gaze at last. "Expecting."

"Oh." Gilbert felt a fool. Of course. After a moment, he remembered his manners. "I mean, congratulations, Jo. That's wonderful."

Jo gave a tight smile.

"Isn't it?" Gilbert asked, surprised his friend was not gladder.

Jo slumped in his chair. "Yes, it is. I suppose. It's just, well, she's been having a rough time of it."

Gilbert nodded sympathetically. "Sounds like it."

"She wanted to wait until she was further along to tell people. But . . . I don't know. Something just doesn't feel right. She's been so sick."

"It will pass, Jo. Most women feel much better by the time they get past the third month or so."

Jo gave a curt nod. "Any day now, I'm hoping."

* * *

Gilbert lay awake, the full moon blazing a bright track across his bed. So, Phil was pregnant, and Diana, too. Probably pretty far along if Davy could tell just by looking at her. Neither Fred nor Diana had mentioned anything in their letters. Perhaps they were only concerned for propriety, but Gilbert doubted it. He had suspected before now that the Wrights went out of their way to avoid the subject of babies in their letters, which had always been suspiciously light on news of Baby Fred.

The thought rankled. Was he someone who hated babies now? How could that be? He adored babies! Yes, it was difficult to think about them. Sometimes unbearable. But that didn't mean he wanted them banished. Moreover, he was annoyed at the thought of Fred and Diana deciding what he could and could not be told. Did they discuss it? Catalog his weak points? Draw up a list?

Gilbert turned over irritably.

Well, there would be no avoiding babies now. Not if Phil was pregnant and he was still expected at the manse every Sunday. How would it be to see her grow, to see Jo with a newborn in his arms, to meet their child?

Gilbert had to admit that the prospect did not overwhelm him with joy. Perhaps he was a baby-hater after all.

Could he find an excuse to stay away? Gilbert snorted aloud. What, forever? _Sorry Phil, sorry Jo, sorry Baby, I am busy forever._ Hardly.

It would be one thing if what he felt were only grief. But Gilbert knew the writhing in his gut. Jealousy. Plain old ugly jealousy. It was an unworthy emotion and he longed to root it out.

Gilbert sat up and lit the lamp on his bedside table. He kept a stack of books by the bed for sleepless nights, but had forgotten that Tennyson was still on top.

 _Oh, sure, that will help_ , he chided himself.

And yet, he stretched out his hand, seemingly unable to stop himself. He pulled the volume into his lap and flipped it open.

There was no way to memorize a poem like this, interminable, far-ranging, organized by a logic even the poet could probably not have described. But Gilbert was familiar enough by now to find the canto he wanted.

 _Do we indeed desire the dead  
_ _Should still be with us at our side?  
_ _Is there no baseness we would hide?  
_ _No inner vileness that we dread?_

Could she see him now?

Jealous of Diana. Jealous of Phil. Gilbert didn't even know a word to describe the emotion of beyond-jealousy he felt toward Fred and Jo.

He hoped she couldn't.


	28. Chapter 28: Of Babies & Their Mothers

Content warning: pregnancy complications

* * *

Chapter 28: Of Babies and their Mothers

* * *

Uncle Dave and Aunt Katherine wrote in December with the sad news that Miss Elizabeth Russell had gone to her final rest.

"She was laughing on her deathbed," Uncle Dave wrote. He enclosed a tiny, sealed note:

 _Dear Mr. Blythe,  
_ _XXX  
_ _Here are three kisses from me. They are my last; don't let them be yours.  
_ _With all my love,  
_ _Miss E. Russell_

Uncle Dave and Aunt Katherine invited the Blythes to Glen St. Mary for Christmas again that year, but Gilbert refused. He wanted to go home to Avonlea and meet Small Anne Cordelia Wright, just to prove he could.

Did they have to name her that?

 _Of course they did, you clod._

Gilbert realized that Phil might have a daughter as well, and if she did, the chances were very good that she would be an Anne as well. Perhaps they would call her something else for a nickname. Nancy? Nan?

Or perhaps he would just be surrounded by little girls named Anne for the rest of his life.

 _Better keep practicing that smile, Blythe._

* * *

Gilbert had planned the trip carefully, arranging to arrive at Carmody on the late train on Christmas Eve. That would give him as little opportunity as possible to excuse himself for a walk and find himself wandering down the Birch Path toward the schoolhouse. He didn't know whether he'd rather live inside forever or burn the place down.

It was a green Christmas — a nasty, gray-and-brown Christmas, she would have corrected him. Gilbert slogged through the mud to Lone Willow Farm on Christmas Day, bearing gifts.

"You had to get him a whistle?" Fred asked as his namesake toddled around the sitting room, alternately blowing ear-splitting blasts and shrieking with delight at his gift from Uncle Gil.

Gilbert shrugged. "I'll buy him books when he's older."

Small Anne Cordelia was a delectable bundle of pink and white topped with silky black curls and lashes so long they reached halfway down her cheeks. Gilbert even held her. When young Fred screamed from the kitchen in a way that sent both his parents racing from the sitting room, Gilbert kissed her on the top of her velvet head and told her he was glad to meet her.

He did not stay long. Not at the Wrights', and not in Avonlea. He visited Davy and Dora on Boxing Day, but left the next morning. His parents were not overjoyed, but they did not try to prevent his going. Perhaps next year he could stay longer.

* * *

On the first Sunday of the new year, Gilbert was surprised to find Jonas Blake waiting for him on the steps of the dormitory.

"Jo! I was just heading over for dinner. Is everything alright?"

"I thought perhaps we could find somewhere to eat around here. Phil isn't feeling well and I didn't want to ask her to cook. She's home in bed."

"Go on home, Jo. I can get a bite in Commons. You should be with her."

Jo forced a smile. "No, actually, she insisted. Says it makes her feel worse to have me hover over her."

Gilbert squinted. "Phil? Not wanting attendants?"

"I think she's feeling pretty miserable and just wants to hide herself away. Ladies from the church have been visiting with food and advice, and she's ready to knock heads together. I understand. It must be wretched to spend all day every day nauseous."

"Still?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Gilbert did some quick mental arithmetic. "She must be well into the fourth month by now."

"Nearly the fifth."

"And she's still sick? Often?"

"Half a dozen times a day. Sometimes more."

Gilbert felt a queasy bolt pass through his own gut. "Jo, that isn't good. What does her doctor say?"

"He says she'll get over it. Says women are always overly dramatic when they're expecting. Looking for attention."

Their eyes met and Gilbert saw a flash of the fear that Jo had worked so hard to conceal.

"Come on, Jo," he said, grabbing his friend's arm. "We're going to your house."*

* * *

They found Phil in bed, riding another endless bout of nausea. Her cheeks, normally so rosy and plump, were the color of boiled cabbage. Sweat stood out in beads on her forehead and her hair straggled over her shoulders in lank clumps.

"Ohhhh, no," she moaned, covering her face with a pillow as Jo led Gilbert into the room.

At first sight of her, Gilbert felt every muscle in his body recoil. Huge eyes staring up from drifts of blankets, the oppressive smell of sickness, and the onrushing sound of something huge . . .

With an enormous effort, he focused his attention on the pattern of the quilt that covered her legs. _Circle and star, circle and star, circle and star_. By the time he recognized Rachel Lynde's apple leaf pattern, the worst of the panic had passed, leaving only a vague nausea in its wake. He could work with that.

"Mrs. Blake!" he said in tones of mock affront. "Just what have you done to yourself now?"

She smiled weakly. "Don't tease, Gil. I feel positively dreadful."

He crossed the room and sat lightly on the chair beside the bed. "You look it, too."

"Well that's a pretty compliment from a man who goes barging into ladies' bedrooms."

Gilbert took her hand gently. "How are you, Phil? I may not be a real doctor yet, but it doesn't take one to see you're in bad shape."

Phil blew a raspberry. "I suppose Jo will have told you the essentials. I'm just . . . just having a rather rough go of it."

"Have you talked to anyone about it?"

"Oh, I've seen the doctor, of course," Phil rolled her eyes. "And a lot of help he is. He's mother's physician and about as sympathetic as a hangman. I've tried to talk to mother a bit, too, but she doesn't like to discuss such things. She said that one pregnancy was more than enough for her and left it at that. I suppose I must take after her. Diana has been a dear, though, sending me ginger candies and peppermint tea."

"Have you been eating?"

Phil wrinkled he nose. "When I can manage some bread, I do."

"Phil," Gilbert pressed her hand in his. "You must eat. For yourself and for the baby."

"I know," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "But I can't. The smell of food makes me violently ill and if I manage a bite of anything it's even odds whether it stays down. I've tried. And I know it's not good for either of us, but I just keep hoping that it will pass."

Gilbert nodded, struggling to keep his face impassive. "You've done all you can. And Jo as well. But it sounds to me like this is more than the normal sickness you might expect. You need a doctor, and not that pompous old gasbag. I'll talk to some of the professors at the hospital, see if they don't know anyone better. Maybe there's a treatment out there for cases like yours."

Phil's eyes were shining with both tears and relief.

"You're a good friend, Gil," she said, reaching for a handkerchief.

There was no trace of teasing in his wistful smile. "You've taken such good care of me this past year and a half. I can only hope to return the favor."

Phil hiccuped. The earnest mood dissolved into laughter, punctuated at intervals by her squeaks.

"I'll tell you the truth," said Phil between hiccups. "I've often resented my mother for making me an only child. But I've quite forgiven her now."

Jo stood beside the bed, smiling fondly at his wife. "Strange how we grow kinder toward our parents once we begin to see them as people like ourselves."

"My mother always said you can't truly appreciate your own parents until your own children pay you back cent for cent for all the mischief you caused in your own childhood," Gilbert said.

"Oh dear!" Phil exclaimed, shaking her head. "If that's the case, we certainly are in for it. Poor Jo. I was a dreadfully headstrong child."

"I gave little Fred Wright a whistle for Christmas," Gilbert offered. "Perhaps I'll get Baby Blake a drum next year."

"Gil, that's diabolical! Think of his poor parents!"

"Only doing my part to help him pay back his debt," Gilbert winked. "The trouble we caused poor Mrs. Wright . . ."

"Well, this one is certainly starting out strong," Phil grimaced.

Gilbert patted her arm. "Try to rest, Phil. Keep drinking fluids, and eat anything you can stand. I'll see what I can find."

* * *

Gilbert sat up late into the night, textbooks piled high around him. Luckily, he had ordered all of the supplementary books recommended by the course catalogue, not just the core texts.

He had started with William Lusk's _The Science and Art of Midwifery_ , the textbook for the introductory course in obstetrics. It was no Tennyson, but it would would keep him lying awake that night just the same.

 _It is necessary not to forget the neurotic character of the stomach sickness in many pregnant women. The complete cessation of the vomiting, deemed uncontrollable as the result of mental impressions, has been often noted by clinical observers. In one instance, owing to extreme exhaustion of the patient due to continued vomiting, I decided to induce abortion. As I was making preparations to that end, the patient, somewhat unexpectedly to myself, announced her determined opposition to the proposed plan of treatment. I endeavored to show her that it was necessary, to save her life. She asked me to hand her a cup of boullion. As she swallowed it I told her there would be no occasion to induce abortion, if she kept it on her stomach. This she did seemingly without difficulty, and from that moment to the end of the pregnancy there was no recurrence of stomach sickness. A similar history is related by Kaltenbach. In a paper on the excessive vomiting of pregnancy, Kaltenbach urges that in all cases especial stress should be laid upon the underlying disturbance of the nervous system . . . 'The more authoritatively the physician carries out his plans of treatment,' he says, 'the more rarely will he be driven to seek a cure in artificial abortion._ **

That was it? Lusk thought that Phil was just hysterical, and Kaltenbach agreed? They thought that she could just choose to eat if she were threatened with . . .

Gilbert closed the textbook with a vicious snap. He ran a hand through his hair until he had worried his curls to frizz. However many times he did it, he could not unsee the words "necessary to save her life."

* * *

Over the next week, Gilbert devoted much of his time to Phil's case. He read every obstetrical textbook he could find and begged more off of Edgar. The pair could often be found in Commons after supper, poring over medical journals right up until the clock chased them toward their evening dissection session.

Nothing they read did anything to lessen Gilbert's alarm. Dr. Hirst's _Textbook of Obstetrics_ was less condescending than Dr. Lusk's, but it contained statistics that liquefied Gilbert's intestines.***

 _The mortality of the pernicious vomiting of pregnancy is high. Of 239 cases, 95 died; of 57 cases treated by the usual means, 28 died; of 36 cases treated by the induction of abortion, 9 died. I have induced abortion for hyperemesis twelve times. Two patients died. In one case I was called to see the woman in consultation when she was almost moribund. The induction of abortion proved too great a shock to her, easy and simple as the operation is. In the other case the religious scruples of the family prevented the termination of the pregnancy when I first advised it. Ten days later, the patient being obviously at death's door, the operation was demanded._

"Come on, Blythe," Edgar said, alarmed by Gilbert's expression. "Let's go hunt up Dr. Forbes."

Dr. Forbes was the chief of obstetrics at Kingsport Hospital. A round, genial man with a white fringe ringing his bald head, he had a broad smile and a quick laugh. Edgar had become a pet of his by lingering after obstetrics lectures to ask probing or clarifying questions.

"Edgar, my lad! What can I do for you?" Dr. Forbes asked, clapping his young protégé on the back.

Edgar introduced Gilbert and went over the outline of Phil's case.

Dr. Forbes shook his head.

"It's _hyperemesis gravidarum_ , sure enough. Nasty complication. There are degrees, of course, and most women make it through. Miserable, but they recover after the delivery. But sometimes . . . well, I've seen some very bad cases. Even lost a mother once."

Gilbert swallowed hard. "I read a bit about it in Lusk's _Midwifery_. He mentions that it is sometimes necessary to . . . induce abortion. Do you agree?"

Dr. Forbes met his gaze frankly. "I've done it. It shouldn't be done except in the most extreme cases. But in those cases, yes."

"What can be done to avoid getting to that point?"

Dr. Forbes was thoughtful. "The real trick is to keep the mother hydrated and fed as much as possible. If she can maintain her weight, or only lose a little, she should pull through just fine. The bad outcomes happen when we see mothers losing an excessive amount of weight. Find something she can stomach and impress upon her the medical necessity of eating. If she can drink, try broths instead of tea — anything to get some nourishment into her."

"What if she can't keep anything down?"

Dr. Forbes crossed his office to a bookshelf and pulled down a handwritten ledger of case notes. "Have you tried giving her menthol?"

"Yes. And peppermint and ginger. All of the kitchen remedies."

Dr. Forbes ran a finger down the page. "What about subnitrate of bismuth? Hydrobromate of hyoscin?"

Gilbert pulled a notebook and pencil from his satchel and scribbled furiously.

"Try those," Forbes was saying. "I've also had some success with cocaine. The nervous sedatives — chloral and opium — work as well, though they have their own problems. But if the case is as bad as you suspect, they're worth a try."****

"Thank you, sir," said Gilbert, barely waiting to shake Dr. Forbes's hand before rushing out the door for the apothecary.

* * *

*LMMontgomery's canon does not give copious details regarding Phil Blake's adult life. We know that she had at least two children because "both the Rev. Jo's boys" served in World War I. This subplot is largely based on Phil's comment that she had "got fearfully thin since the babies came" in _Anne's House of Dreams_.

**This paragraph is a direct quotation from _The Science and Art of Midwifery_ by William Thompson Lusk, which was the assigned obstetrics textbook for the University of Pennsylvania Medical School class of 1889.

*** _Textbook of Obstetrics_ by Barton Cooke Hirst was one of the supplementary textbooks recommended to the University of Pennsylvania Medical School class of 1889. This paragraph is a direct quotation.

****All of these treatments are suggested in Hirst's _Textbook of Obstetrics_.


	29. Chapter 29: The Way Things Are

Content warning: pregnancy complications

* * *

Chapter 29: The Way Things Are

* * *

Gilbert visited the manse on Patterson Street every Sunday with a girded heart and a new remedy. The treatments Dr. Forbes had recommended had helped. A little. Subnitrate of bismuth was nasty stuff. Opium had proved the most useful so far. It didn't increase Phil's appetite, but it did depress the nausea enough that she could worry down a few bites. Edgar had visited twice and Dr. Forbes himself once. Both agreed that Gilbert was doing everything — nearly everything — that could be done.

By the beginning of March, Gilbert was confident that they had succeeded in slowing Phil's weight loss, though he could not quite convince himself that they had stopped it altogether.

"How are _you_ doing, Jo?" Gilbert asked one Sunday after Phil had retired to bed.

Jo had warmed some of the food the Ladies' Aid had sent up to the manse. He and Gilbert sat in the kitchen, not the dining room, making no attempt to pretend that this was a festive occasion. "I'm holding up," he said, pushing potatoes around his plate.

"You're doing all you can," Gilbert said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

"It's little enough. I pray for her, of course — the whole congregation does. And the Ladies' Aid has helped as much as they can. But it's still . . ."

Gilbert nodded, shuddering to recall the helplessness of his own anguish. Thinking to return the conversation to more concrete matters, he asked, "Is she tolerating the opium alright?"

Jo twisted his lips. "It helps a bit. But I don't know. It gives her these dreams . . ."

"It's not ideal," Gilbert conceded. "I'm still looking, though. So is Edgar. We might find something better."

"Is there any treatment we haven't tried?" Jo asked, meeting Gilbert's gaze squarely.

Gilbert looked down at his plate.

"I know there's something you aren't telling me," Jo said softly.

"We'll find something better, Jo."

"Gilbert. What did Dr. Forbes say? Tell me."

Gilbert shook his head. "There's no need to alarm you with the most drastic measures. Phil's doing a little better now. We're not there."

Jo did not look away. "What are the most drastic measures?"

Gilbert drew in a breath, blew it out. "In extreme cases — very extreme cases, you understand, and Phil's isn't, and isn't going to be — in extreme cases, the recommendation is to induce artificial abortion."

He had expected Jo to react strongly. Anger? Offense? But his friend merely nodded. "I suspected as much."

Gilbert laid a hand on his arm. "We're not there, Jo. And I don't think it will get that bad. She's only got three months to go. Phil is strong. She'll make it."

Jo rubbed his hands over his tired face. "Three months. And every minute of it torture. I don't know how she can bear it. Even if the baby lives . . ."

"It will, Jo," Gilbert said. "Babies take what they need. They're determined little parasites."

"Cannibals."

"Well, Phil can give this little one a round scolding on its birthday. You both can."

Jo stared at his food for a moment. When he spoke, his tone signaled a shift away from the mundane into that realm of honesty that only opens occasionally, even between very good friends. "Gil, do you have any idea what an extraordinary mathematician Phil really is?"

Gilbert sat back.

"Well, I know she beat me in every exam and would spend an afternoon on a problem set that took me all week." He chuckled in recollection. "There was this grumpy old professor who detested coeds and was always trying to stump her. When she turned in her first problem set, he sneered at her and said, 'oh, how pretty, perhaps I should frame it rather than grading it.' And do you know what Phil said?"

Jo shook his head.

"She said he could frame it after he graded it, as there wouldn't be any need to mark it up," Gilbert smiled broadly.

"That's my girl," gulped Jo, forcing a smile.

After a long pause, he continued in a low voice. "Sometimes, I feel guilty for taking her away from that. She should be off somewhere solving a thousand-year-old proof that no one has ever cracked before. I wonder what she could have been if she hadn't followed me here."

Jo held out his hands, encompassing the manse, Patterson Street, his whole world.

"She chose you, Jo," Gilbert replied, a bit huskily. "She's here because she loves you."

"Little good it's done her. It's more than that, though. I think sometimes that it's a disservice to the world, spending her time learning to cook and helping me keep peace in the congregation. What knowledge is the world missing because she's not following her calling? What inventions? What cures? What new questions? I have everything I ever wanted: the woman I love, the life I chose, the work that God called me to do. I don't think Phil could say the same."

"Homemaking is a calling . . ." said Gilbert uneasily.

"Yes, it is. But it isn't Phil's."

"What about motherhood?"

Jo sighed heavily. "Phil will be a wonderful mother. But after all this, can I really say that God made Phil to bear children? She's being eaten alive from the inside and it's torture just to watch. And if . . . even if she makes it this time, what's next? Another? And another and another until she does die? I can't help but imagine her safe somewhere, setting the world on fire with her brilliance, rather than suffering like this."

"Steady on, Jo," Gilbert grimaced. "You're reminding me of someone."

Jo matched his expression. "I guess I didn't really understand what you were going through. It's a different thing, knowing something with your soul, rather than just your brain. I'm sorry if I was unsympathetic then."

"No, you were right," Gilbert assured him. "And you must take your own advice. Phil loves you and chose you. And she wants to be a mother, even at this cost. Maybe it isn't fair that she had to choose between a career and a family, but that's just the way things are."

"Did you . . ." Jo began, but stopped, not wanting to pick at a scab. But Gilbert gave him an encouraging look, inviting him to continue. "Did you ever feel guilty about Anne planning to give up teaching?"

Gilbert considered for a moment. "There was this professor at Redmond," he said, picking his way slowly among the dangerous memories. "He encouraged her to continue her studies. Maybe get a Ph.D. someday. She was that good. I told her to try for it, but she refused. She wanted to teach. And more than that, she told me she didn't want to spend years working toward a degree she would never be able to use."* He paused, swallowed. "I regret a lot of things. But that's one of them. It hurts to know that she maybe didn't let herself dream that dream because of me. I know she made her own choice. And that she didn't regret it. But, yes. I feel guilty about that."

Jo regarded his friend. "I think I understand a little better about something you said back then. You were so set on protecting Anne, and having such a hard time realizing that you couldn't. I was thinking about it as a theological problem, being resigned to God's will and all that. But there was part of it I didn't understand then. We're taught all our lives to be protectors. It's supposed to be our job. I'm supposed to protect Phil with my very life if necessary. And I would! But the truth is, I don't know how to protect her from _me_."

Gilbert's cocked his head.

"I don't mean I'd ever hurt her on purpose," Jo said quickly. "I see that sort of thing sometimes, in the congregation, and it's awful. But I'm still killing her. Every pregnancy will be like this. It can't go on. She won't survive."

Gilbert had not considered this line of thought. Now that it was laid before him, he followed it swiftly to its conclusion. "So . . ."

Jo looked at him in deadly earnest. "If Phil lives through this, I'll never touch her again."

Gilbert did not mean to laugh at his friend's heartfelt declaration, but he could not suppress the twitching smile that curled the corner of his mouth. "And what does Phil have to say about that?"

Jo rolled his eyes and Gilbert was glad to see that he had not entirely lost his sense of humor in regard to a sensitive subject.

"She can say whatever she wants," said Jo bravely. "I'm not putting her through this again."

Gilbert raised his eyebrows until they nearly disappeared.

"I'm serious!" Jo protested.

"But you haven't told Phil yet?"

"Not yet," Jo muttered.

"Oh, to be a fly on that wall," Gilbert replied, chuckling.

Jo responded in kind, relaxing. Gilbert took this as permission and broke into genuine laughter. Soon, both men were laughing uncontrollably, spilling all the tension and fear of the past several months in riotous mirth.

When Gilbert could breathe again, he sat up and wiped the tears from his eyes with a napkin. "Maybe hold off on that conversation a while longer, Jo. I'll keep searching."

* * *

*Catiegirl's "When Tomorrow Comes"


	30. Chapter 30: Proverbs 17:17

Content warning: pregnancy complications

* * *

Chapter 30: Proverbs 17:17

* * *

Sighing, Gilbert pushed his notebook aside. He needed to finish this draft for Prof. Hawlett, but the words just refused to flow, and staring at a blank page was maddening. Between classes and working on Phil's case, he had made hardly any progress on his report in weeks.

Dr. Hawlett's work was important. More than that, it sometimes gave Gilbert a thrill, as if the bacteriology lab was the right place for him to be. Not always, or even often, but sometimes.

Still, it was difficult to concentrate on microbiology when Phil was so constantly on his mind. Gilbert looked out the window at early leaves unfurling on the maples. He would see Phil and Jo tomorrow, as always. Phil still called his visits _Sunday dinner_ , but the jest had long since worn thin.

Sighing, Gilbert untied a parcel of mail that had sat on the corner of his desk for a week. The latest medical journals from England and the States, with a few French and German ones thrown in. Gilbert's French was rubbish, but he could generally make his way through the papers well enough to bring interesting articles to the medical librarians for better translations. Whatever Dr. Pasteur was working on at any given moment was worth knowing about.

Gilbert lifted the first journal from the pile — _The Lancet_ , March 30, 1889 — and began to skim. Strangulated hernias . . . the structure of the esophagus . . . a brief piece by an English doctor in Calcutta on "The Use of Indian Hemp in the Treatment of Chronic Chloral and Chronic Opium Poisoning" . . .

A phrase from this last caught Gilbert's eye: ". . . _immediate_ action of the drug in appeasing the appetite . . ."

His brain jolted to attention. It was a very short article, not even a full page long. Gilbert began at the beginning. _Dr. Edward A. Birch . . . insomnia, anorexia . . . could scarcely take any food . . . half a grain of extract of cannabis indica . . . three times a day . . ._

Gilbert found that he was standing, reading aloud.

" _Ability to take food and retain it soon returned, and after a time an appetite appeared_ . . . this is it!"*

Wild-eyed, he turned to the clock. If he ran, perhaps he could catch the apothecary in the high street . . .

Barely pausing to stuff _The Lancet_ into his coat pocket, Gilbert ran. He arrived at the shop winded, clutching at the stitch in his side. The bespectacled apothecary, who had been rolling down his blinds and dreaming of his supper, heaved a deep sigh. Why couldn't people fall ill at a decent hour?

"I'm closed."

"Please," Gilbert wheezed. "I just need . . . one thing. Do you carry extract of _cannabis indica_?"

"Sure. Just on its own? I have some little bottles plain, but there's others if you like. The ones in the brown bottles have a bit of morphine and some chloroform, along with the cannabis."**

"Just the cannabis extract, please," said Gilbert said, finally able to stand up straight.

Gilbert accepted the little blue bottle from the apothecary, shoved his money at the man, and didn't bother to wait for his change. He was off again, jogging toward Patterson Street.

* * *

The manse was quiet. A flickering light in the study window suggested that Jo was in, but it was the only light in the house. Gilbert knocked, struggling to keep a grin off his face.

The Jonas Blake who answered the door was a man transformed by agony. Jo had always been homely, with a too-wide mouth, overlarge ears, and a tuft of white-blond hair atop his long, sallow face. In better days, none of this had mattered. The lively sparkle of eye and ready smile had animated his features with such cheerful good humor that any first impression of ugliness was quickly swept away.

Now, Jo's haggard features hung heavy, the sum of their parts not adding up to their previous, spirited whole. He lifted lidded eyes to Gilbert's shining face, as if to reproach his enthusiasm.

Gilbert did not wait to be invited in.

"Jo! Turn up the lamps, Jo. I've got something. This time, I really think I've got it."

Jo showed cautious interest, but did not rejoice. Shushing, he pulled Gilbert through to the kitchen.

"She's asleep. Finally. It's been . . . rather a long day."

"Read this," said Gilbert, shoving the _Lancet_ article into Jo's hand. "Here. This doctor is treating patients who are losing weight, have no appetite, can't keep anything down. He only has a few cases, but he reports excellent results."

Jo read, a stubborn frown on his face. "This is for opium addicts."

Gilbert waved a hand. "Sure, sure. But look at their symptoms. And it's a simple treatment. Just a spoonful of medicine three times a day."

"If I could get her to take anything three times a day, things wouldn't be this bad."

"It's worth a shot, Jo."

Jo slumped against the table. "Of course it is. Sorry, Gil. Of course we'll try it. I just don't want to get my hopes up."

"Jo?" a quavering voice floated down the stairs.

"No time like the present."

Gilbert followed Jo up the stairs. His frenzy had subsided a bit, reined in by Jo's sober reaction. He was probably right. No such thing as a miracle cure. But this sounded so right.

As he ascended the stairs, Gilbert repeated the familiar ritual he had developed for visiting Phil's sickroom. _Today is April 6, 1889._ Touch the wood of the railing. _Phil is pregnant and suffering from hyperemesis._ Touch railing. _Phil needs you._ Touch. Thus assured of mundane reality, he took a deep breath and went in.

In the week since he had seen last seen her, Phil had certainly not gained any weight, but Gilbert was relieved to see that she did not appear to have lost much either. The dimples had long ago gone from her cheeks, and her arms lay slack over the covers.

"Phil?" Jo murmured. "Look who's come to see you."

Phil struggled to sit up in bed. "Hello, Gil. Come for the food and the atmosphere, have you?"

He smiled broadly. "Indeed. And I've brought appetizers."

She looked puzzled, but motioned for him to take the chair beside the bed.

"I found a study, Phil. You can read it if you like. It's from a doctor in India who has been using a simple plant extract to build appetite in patients who have difficulty eating. I have some of it here, if you're willing to give it a try."

Phil looked to Jonas. He nodded.

"I'll try, honey. Though I don't know how I'm going to keep anything down today, even medicine."

"I have a plan for that. You're going to take this medicine and I'm going to sit here for the next hour and tell you all of my most hair-raising pranks from when I was a boy. You won't have a chance to think of being sick until you've had a good long while to digest."

Phil gave a pallid giggle. "I see. So laughter is the best medicine? Isn't there something to that effect in Proverbs?"

"Proverbs 17:22," quoted Jo. " _A merry heart doth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones_."

"No dry bones allowed," Gilbert teased. "I think I'll start off with the time I convinced my cousin Lydia that cats could read her mind."

"Oh, Gil, you didn't!"

"I did. And I'll tell you all about it after you swallow this spoonful of medicine."

He drew the little blue bottle from his pocket and measured out a dose. Phil nodded determinedly, pinched her own nose, and gulped it down. She shivered, then smirked.

"Alright, let's hear it."

An hour later, Phil wasn't ravenously hungry, but the cannabis had stayed in her stomach. She had managed a few sips of broth and an apple that Jo had cut into tiny slices and fed to her bit by bit. She had seemed to enjoy Gilbert's stories hugely, giggling with an abandon that seemed borrowed from her freshette days at Redmond. Even Jo had laughed at some of his more outlandish exploits, the merriment going a long way toward mending his own spirits. When Phil began to drowse, Gilbert left her with strict instructions to take another dose in the morning and again at noon, and a solemn promise to return the following afternoon.

Jo walked him to the door.

"Thank you, Gil."

"I just hope it works. I'll be by tomorrow. If she thinks she can eat, try her on something gentle: gruel or broth or plain bread."

"I will." Jo looked sheepish for a moment, seemingly deciding whether to say something that was on the tip of his tongue.

Gilbert gave him time.

"I know you're not necessarily in search of Bible verses, Gil. But there's another from Proverbs 17 that came to mind tonight."

"Oh?"

"Proverbs 17:17: _A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity_."

Gilbert smiled and squeezed Jo's forearm. "I'll be back tomorrow."

* * *

*This is a real article. Edward A. Birch, "The Use of Indian Hemp in the Treatment of Chronic Chloral and Chronic Opium Poisoning," _The Lancet_ , 30 March 1889.

**Yes, this is something you could buy off the shelf in 1889. Feel free to look up "One Night Cough Syrup."


	31. Chapter 31: To Guide in Word & Deed

Chapter 31: To Guide In Word and Deed, With Love and With Prayer

* * *

Gordon Blythe Blake was born on Saturday, the 25th of May, 1889. He was as fat and healthy as anyone could have wished. Phil cried; Jo cried; Gilbert cried; Gordon alternated between crying and sleeping. It was all quite wonderful.

The next day, Phil Blake ate a full meal and there was another round of crying.

If Gilbert had consulted the end-of-year exam lists, he would have found that he topped the class of 1890 for the second year running, as everyone knew he would. But for the first time in his life, he forgot to check.

* * *

A week later, Gilbert crossed the threshold of a church for the first time in nearly two years. The Patterson Street Mission Church was square and shabby and positively crammed with people come to see little Gordon baptized. Gilbert spotted Mr. and Mrs. Gordon in the crowd, conspicuous in their customary raiment among the neat and tidy Sunday bests of Patterson Street.

Gilbert helped Phil to her seat in the front pew, a difficult task given the gauntlet they had to navigate. A hundred voices wished her well, a hundred more welcomed her back. If everyone who had felt the urge to hug her had done so, she would have been quite smothered. Phil smiled crookedly, her brown eyes twinkling as they had not in many months. She was thin — fearfully thin, if Gilbert were honest — but her face had lost some of its ghastly pallor. It was good to see her smile.

But no one smiled as Jo smiled. When he took the pulpit, Gilbert realized that he had never actually seen his friend in his proper place. Surrounded by his congregation, smiling down at the pew where his wife held their son, he was a man standing where God had meant him to stand.

When Jo held Gordon in his arms and asked the congregation to vow that they would guide him in word and deed, in love and in prayer, Gilbert pinched himself, lest he start blubbering before the grandmother did.

* * *

Gilbert passed that summer and much of the next fall in Prof. Hawlett's lab. Word from France was that the Pasteur Institute had made some sort of breakthrough in the fight against diphtheria: not attenuating the bacteria, but injecting it into horses and then harvesting the antitoxin that the animals produced to resist the pathogen. Prof. Hawlett swore it couldn't work, but Gilbert had no partisan loyalty to one method of vaccination over another. If antitoxin worked better than attenuation, then godspeed to Dr. Roux and Dr. Yersin.*

In the first week of term, Dr. Edmonds called Gilbert into his office to check on his progress. Edmonds had prepared a list of questions, but needed only the first. Gilbert filled the remainder of the hour, speaking animatedly of the lab, advancements in the field, and his plans to submit a thesis on the efficacy of Jennerian vs. Pasteurian methods of vaccine preparation in May. Dr. Edmonds shook his hand as a colleague and laughed aloud after Gilbert left.

* * *

 _28 September 1889_

 _Dear Gilbert,_

 _I take my pen to thank you for the beautiful glass bell you sent for my aloe plant. I was worried that it would die in the winter, but now I think it will be safe. Mrs. Barry says that I may keep it on the window seat in my room. I have a south-facing window so I hope that the plant will get enough light and the bell will keep it warm._

 _I tried the aloe ointment or the first time last week when Minnie May burned her hand on a tray of bread. It worked very well! Minnie May said that it felt so cool and and her burn got better very quickly. No one else in Avonlea has an aloe plant. I think that Mrs. Wright is very interested in mine because she asks about it nearly every time she visits Orchard Slope. I wonder whether she wants one, too. Will you bring another one from Kingsport for her when you come home for Christmas?_

 _I have thought about what you said about the Queen's class. I think that I will join the class but I do not know if I will take the entrance. You are right that it is important to be able to make my own way in the world but I do not know if I want to qualify as a teacher. I think I will stay in the class until I decide so that I do not miss my chance. I thought that Davy would be cross if I joined the class because he means to leave school after one more year. But he only said that if I please myself I will please him, so I guess he is not cross._

 _We will start the potato harvest at Green Gables on Monday. Davy says that our crop is not as good as last year but it is well enough. He means to stay out of school for the week so that he can do a full share and we will not have to hire a man. Davy says that next year he will bring the crop in himself, but Mr. Harrison says he will still help._

 _I hope that you are well in Kingsport._

 _Your loving friend,_

 _Dora Keith_

* * *

*Emile Roux and Alexandre Yersin worked on the development of diphtheria antitoxin at the Pasteur Institute in Paris in 1888-9. It did work, but it was risky. Growing the antitoxin in animals made it extremely difficult to monitor the strength and safety of each batch. While antitoxin treatments saved thousands of lives in the 1890s and early 1900s, contaminated batches killed some patients. In 1901, tetanus-tainted diphtheria antitoxin killed twelve people in St. Louis, Missouri, USA. This incident was one of the catalysts leading to the establishment of the US Food and Drug Administration in 1906. The modern diphtheria vaccine is a much safer version developed in the 20th century.


	32. Chapter 32: Dr Blythe

Chapter 32: Dr. Blythe

* * *

Gilbert's soup was getting cold. He had meant to eat it, but a thesis paragraph had come to him as a visitation from on high and it was imperative to jot it down before it vanished.

"Blythe! Blythe!"

Gilbert held up a hand for silence. When he had finished the final sentence, he looked up to see Edgar Wilson, flushed and panting, holding a letter.

Gilbert's eyes widened. "You got it?"

Edgar collapsed onto the dining hall bench, laughing. "I got it! Can you imagine? Toronto General Hospital!"

Gilbert smiled and clapped Edgar on the back. "I thought you weren't supposed to hear until April!"

Edgar guffawed. "April starts tomorrow, Blythe."

Gilbert's stomach dropped. May had once seemed so far away; how was he ever going to finish this thesis in time?

Edgar had launched into a lengthy discourse on Toronto General Hospital. ". . . hundreds of births every year. So many interesting cases . . ."

Gilbert let him go on a bit before interrupting. "I'm happy for you, Edgar. Have you told Dr. Forbes yet?"

"I'm off to see him now," Edgar replied, bouncing up from the bench. "He'll be glad, though. He told me himself that it's important to see as wide a range of cases as possible, and Toronto will give me that. And he told me flat out that he'd be happy to have me back any time I cared to return."

"Congratulations, Edgar," Gilbert said, shaking his friend's hand. "You'll be brilliant."

Edgar grinned. "I promise not to drop any babies."

* * *

"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Blythe," said Dean Blanchard, gesturing to one of the leather armchairs beside the marble fireplace in his office.

"Of course, sir," Gilbert replied, taking the seat.

The Dean poured tea from a silver service into china cups emblazoned with the seal of Redmond Medical School. "As you know, Mr. Blythe," he began, "I have been interested in your career from the time you arrived on campus. Before that, really — ever since you were named as a contender for the Cooper Prize. You have done very well at the medical school. Top of the class. Prof. Hawlett tells me that your work in the laboratory will move the whole field of vaccine development forward."

"Thank you, sir," Gilbert said, feeling no more enlightened about the purpose of this meeting than he had been when he received his summons that morning.

Dean Blanchard set down his teacup. "Have you enjoyed your time at Redmond Medical School?"

Gilbert did not quite know how to answer that. "I . . . medical school has been . . . it's been a splendid challenge, sir. The courses have been excellent. And I know that we are doing good work in the lab." He hoped that was all both true enough and effusive enough to suffice.

"Just so, just so," Dean Blanchard replied, not seeming overly attentive to Gilbert's answer. "I wonder, what is next for you, Mr. Blythe? Convocation is only six weeks away. Do you mean to apply for one of the residencies at Kingsport Hospital? Or do you have other plans?"

"I . . . well . . ." Gilbert stammered, kicking himself for not preparing a smooth answer to this utterly predictable question.

Dean Blanchard barreled past the difficulty. "I have a proposition for you, Mr. Blythe. Here at Redmond Medical School, we strive to give our students a thorough, modern medical education. After surveying our curriculum, we have determined that we are not serving our students well enough in the emerging fields of bacteriology and virology. Would you agree?"

"I . . . I certainly feel well-served, sir. Prof. Hawlett has provided excellent instruction . . ."

The Dean waved a hand. "Yes, _you_ have been, but the other students have not. We are considering adding a course in bacteriology to the third-year curriculum."

"That sounds like an excellent idea, sir."

"And we want you to teach it."

Gilbert spluttered into his tea.

"Me, sir?"

"Yes. We'd like to appoint you as Assistant Professor of Medicine. You would have your own space in Prof. Hawlett's lab to continue with your research, and you would lecture twice each week for the third-year students. If you like, you might even take on a student or two of your own to help you in your work."

Gilbert merely stared at him.

"We would start you at a reasonable salary, of course. Accommodation would be provided . . ."

Dean Blanchard was still speaking, but Gilbert was not listening. _Professor of Medicine?_ Stay at Redmond? For . . . ever? The lab work was important, he knew, and he did feel a certain leaping of his heart on days when he was scheduled to work there instead of at the hospital. Despite his hopes, the hours he spent in patient-centered clinics were still an agony to him. He certainly did not want a residency at the hospital, spending all day every day in patient care. Perhaps this was a good chance for him . . .

"Dean Blanchard," Gilbert interrupted. "Thank you for your generous offer. Perhaps you will give me a few days to think it over?"

* * *

"It's hard to believe it's been nearly a year," Gilbert commented as Gordon Blake used the sofa to pull himself up to a standing position.*

"I'm glad you think it flew by," Phil groaned, hoisting her son into her lap. "Mother and Father are insisting that we hold a party at Mount Holly for Gordon's first birthday next month, but I declare, it should be a party for me and Jo! Congratulations, you made it through a whole year! And we should get to celebrate by sleeping."

"Will you come, Gilbert?" Jo asked. "We'd love to have you celebrate with us."

Gilbert chuckled. "Indeed not! I can only imagine the splendor of such an event. I shall ponder it from a very safe distance." It took effort to push away the image of Mount Holly's rosemary maze, but Gilbert was an old hand by now.

"Are your parents coming into town for Convocation?" Phil wondered.

"Yes," Gilbert replied, outwardly as composed as ever. "They're even going to stay in a hotel. It's their first time and I've had a job convincing my mother that she needn't bring anything but clothes."

"Will they stay long?"

"Only three nights. Then it's back to Avonlea."

Phil set a wriggling Gordon back on the floor and watched him scoot away.

"And you, Gil? Have you made any decisions?"

"Yes."

Phil and Jo both leaned in, giving him their undivided attention.

Gilbert took a steadying breath. "I'm going to stay in Kingsport. I'm going to take the professorship."

Jo grinned. Phil shrieked and covered her mouth with her hands.

"Oh, honey, that's wonderful! Congratulations!"

"Splendid, Gil! We're so glad you're going to stay!"

"Thanks," he said, smiling a bit shyly. "I don't expect my parents will be as thrilled when I write to them."

"They don't know yet?" Phil asked.

"I only decided today."

"I think they'll be pleased," Jo said. "They only want to see you happy."

Gilbert blew out a breath. "Well, I don't want to over-promise on that account."

"Is it what you really want?" Phil inquired, her brown eyes huge and earnest.

Gilbert did not want to disappoint her, but he did not want to lie either. "It isn't the life I imagined for myself. But my work is important and I do enjoy it, as much as I enjoy anything. It's . . . a useful life. An honest life. I'm satisfied."

Phil pressed her lips and was on the point of saying something, but Jo cut her off.

"Then I think you've come a long way. We believe in you, Gil. And we'll always be here for you."

"Sunday dinner forever?"

"You'd better plan on it."

* * *

When Gilbert walked across the stage to receive his degree, John and Cora Blythe ruined several handkerchiefs. To see their boy smile with genuine pleasure, to see him shake the Dean's hand and be welcomed as an equal by the faculty, replenished their depleted spirits as nothing had in years. Their hearts felt as if they might burst with pride when Gilbert was presented with a special award of merit for his thesis research. They were prouder still to see him let his stoic exterior slip enough to draw a green-bordered handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and dab his eyes in full view of the entire convocation.

* * *

*Author's Note:  
I would apologize for breezing through the third year like this, but I have destinations in mind and I think you know nearly everything you need to know in order to come along with me. Just one more chapter in Part I.


	33. Chapter 33: The Bend in the Road

Content warning: death

* * *

Chapter 33: The Bend in the Road

* * *

 _"When I left Queen's my future seemed to stretch out before me like a straight road. I thought I could see along it for many a milestone. Now there is a bend in it. I don't know what lies around the bend, but I'm going to believe that the best does. It has a fascination of its own, that bend, Marilla. I wonder how the road beyond it goes — what there is of green glory and soft, checkered light and shadows — what new landscapes — what new beauties — what curves and hills and valleys further on."_

 _Anne of Green Gables_ , Chapter 38: The Bend in the Road

* * *

A merry fire danced on the hearth at Patty's Place, keeping the winter chill at bay. In the kitchen, Stella and Priss were helping Aunt Jamesina with an apple pie, while Phil teased the Sarah-cat on the hearth rug. Gilbert and Anne sat on the lounge together, knees touching inconspicuously.

"Professor Coleman hinted that Dante would figure heavily in our final exams," Anne said, opening her copy of _The Divine Comedy_ to the first canto of _Inferno_. "Have you read this, Gil?"

Gilbert peered over her shoulder, secretly reveling in the scent of her hair, so very close. If he leaned forward just a bit . . .

" _Inferno_? No. We only did English literature and Classics at Queen's," he replied with studied nonchalance.

"It's quite wonderful. Listen to this," sighed Anne, beginning to read:

 _Midway upon the journey of our life  
_ _I found myself within a forest dark,  
_ _For the straightforward pathway had been lost.  
_ _Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say  
_ _What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,  
_ _Which in the very thought renews the fear.  
_ _So bitter is it, death is little more._

She finished with a little shiver. "That gives me one of my old delicious thrills."

Gilbert frowned. "It sounds like one of your 'bends in the road,' Anne. Though perhaps a nightmare version."

Anne's gray eyes sparkled. "I never thought of that! But you're right, Gil. _The straightforward pathway had been lost_ . . . yes, I suppose that's another sort of bend in the road. Of course, I always prefer to be optimistic about what might be hidden around mine. Dante, on the other hand . . ."

"It's _Inferno_ , not the fairy path," Gilbert nodded.

"This is Longfellow's translation, you know," Anne said, running her fingers over the text. "Can't you just imagine him reading these lines? I've heard he was a wonderful lecturer."

In truth, Gilbert was more interested in the shining expression on Anne's face than in imagining white-bearded professors laboring over medieval Italian poetry. But the subject had captured Anne's fancy, and he had never needed any more encouragement than that.

"Doesn't _Inferno_ seem a hop out of step for Longfellow, Anne? I thought his own works were mostly cozy."

"They do call him a 'Fireside Poet.'" Anne admitted, turning toward their own comfortable hearth. "But as Longfellow says in _Hyperion_ , 'every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.'"

"Did Longfellow have a secret sorrow?" Gilbert asked, not really caring about the answer.

A soft look came over Anne's face. "Not a secret at all. Haven't you heard the story? When he was very young, he lost his wife and their baby in childbed. She was only twenty-two. He wrote _Hyperion_ in the years afterward."

Gilbert shifted uneasily in his seat. "I thought that Longfellow had a large family, didn't he?"

"Oh, yes," Anne replied. "He married again and had several children. You know 'The Children's Hour':

 _I hear in the chamber above me  
The patter of little feet,  
The sound of a door that is opened,  
And voices soft and sweet_."*

Gilbert nodded. "Yes, that's the sort of Longfellow I remember. Not _Inferno_."

But Anne wasn't finished. "One afternoon, while Longfellow was napping, his wife, Fanny, went to put away some locks of the children's hair in the library. She got too close to the fire and her dress caught. Longfellow rushed to her and tried to put out the flames with his bare hands, but it was too late to save her. She burned to death in front of the children. After, he grew his famous beard to cover his own scars."

Gilbert had gone quite pale. "No, I hadn't heard that story," he said, swallowing. On impulse, he wrapped an arm firmly around Anne's waist and pulled her in close to him, safe and sound. "It's hard to imagine anyone writing anything after that."

Anne spread her delicate hands over the volume open on her lap. "He spent the next decade translating 14,000 lines of Dante," she whispered. " _Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark_ . . ."

* * *

Another winter, another hearth.

Gilbert sat at the little writing desk in his apartment, surrounded by stacks of the latest medical journals. After seven years as a Professor of Medicine, he found that the theories and techniques he had learned in medical school were not always the most up-to-date. Things were moving so fast these days, particularly in the field of bacteriology. His own work on the efficacy of various methods of vaccine preparation had met with acclaim and had, he hoped, contributed in some small way to medical advancements. It was always a thrill to follow a footnote in an interesting article and find one of his own publications cited. But so many doctors were discovering so much; it was a struggle to keep up with the necessary reading in addition to his teaching and research.

Gilbert checked his watch. Nearly ten o'clock. He should get to bed soon. Phil and Jo were expecting him for dinner tomorrow as usual, and he didn't want to show up heavy-eyed and drooping. Phil would scold. Besides, he would need some energy to keep up with the children. Gordon would want to tell him all about school; Oliver would want to play pirates, as he always did. Gilbert smiled fondly. He loved the little Blakes and marked the weeks by his visits to them.

But bacteria are indifferent to human stories.

Gilbert sighed and set aside the most recent issue of _The Lancet_. Without enthusiasm, he seized the next periodical — _The British Medical Journal,_ January 30, 1897— and began scanning its table of contents. _Remarks on the Treatment of Bubonic Plague_ . . . _Observations on Malaria_ . . . _Remarks on_ . . .

Gilbert sat upright, nearly toppling his chair.

 _Remarks on Vaccination against Typhoid Fever_.

With trembling fingers, he tore through the journal, searching for page 256. There, in neat, black print: "Remarks on Vaccination against Typhoid Fever, By A.E. Wright, M.D., Professor of Pathology, and Surj.-Maj. D. Semple, M.D., Army Medical School, Netley."**

Gilbert read:

 _Mr. Haffkine suggested rather more than twelve months ago to one of us that the method of vaccination which has proved so effectual in combating cholera epidemics in India might_ mutatis mutandis _, be applied also to the prophylaxis of typhoid fever. Since that time, this question has been constantly engaging our attention, and we have gradually elaborated the method of antityphoid vaccination, which is to be briefly discussed in this paper._

Gilbert tried to read on, but his hands were shaking so badly that the text seemed to jump around the page. He dropped the journal onto the desk, planted his hand firmly beside it, and continued.

 _The object of all vaccination processes is, first, to achieve a degree of immunity which shall be equal or greater to that which accrues to a patient who undergoes and recovers from an actual attack of the disease; and, secondly, to achieve that immunity without any risk to life or health._

Had they done it? Did Wright and Semple have an answer?

Gilbert scanned ahead, unable to wait for the close-set text to resolve into meaning. There was a chart on the second page. Eighteen experimental patients, most of them vaccinated this past November and December. A tiny column of Xs spelled success.

Gilbert dropped his head into his hands.

 _An effective vaccination. For typhoid._

He snatched the article back up.

 _A.E. Wright. D. Semple. Army Medical School, Netley. Netley?_

He had heard of the British Army Medical School of course. But where was it? Somewhere on the coast, south of London.

 _But where, exactly?_

Gilbert crossed to the untidy bookcase and began to rummage.

 _Atlas. Atlas. There's an atlas here somewhere._

He found the dusty book of maps and slung it across the desk. Turning the kerosene lamp to its highest brilliance, he ran his finger west from the white cliffs of Dover, along the seaside.

 _Netley . . . Netley . . . Netley . . ._

Netley.

There it was. Just north of the Isle of Wight, on the outskirts of Southampton.

 _A.E. Wright. D. Semple. Army Medical School, Netley. Vaccination against Typhoid Fever._

They must have a laboratory there. A laboratory where they were perfecting a vaccine. For typhoid.

With a tremendous effort, Gilbert steadied his own breathing and pulled the _British Medical Journal_ toward him. Carefully, he read every word of the three-page article. He mouthed the section headings like a child in primary school just learning to read.

 _Method of Preparing the Antityphoid Vaccines._

 _Dosage and Strength of the Antityphoid Vaccines._

 _Suggestions as to the Sphere of Application of the Proposed Antityphoid Vaccines._

When he had finished, Gilbert leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his hands. He took several deep breaths and let them out very, very slowly. When his thoughts resolved into sense, he was surprised to find that they took the form of Captain Jim's words, reaching out to him across the years.

 _Someday, when you aren't looking for it, a breeze will call you. And when it does, you jest hoist your sail and see where it takes you._

Gilbert Blythe had never been so certain of anything. He pressed one hand to his waistcoat pocket and reached for pen and ink with the other.

 _Saturday, 27 February 1897_

 _Dear Dean Blanchard,  
_ _It is with sincere regret that I write to resign my appointment as Professor of Medicine . . ._

* * *

End of Part I

* * *

*"The Children's Hour" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was a vastly popular poem in the 19th century — the sort of poem that most English-speakers would have heard and many would have memorized at school.

**"Remarks on Vaccination against Typhoid Fever" by Dr. Almroth Wright and Surgeon-Major D. Semple appeared in the January 30, 1897 edition of the _British Medical Journal_. These are real quotations from their work.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Thank you for reading! If you've made it through 33 chapters of this, let me know what you think so far! I do want to get better at this, so your constructive criticism means the world to me.**

 **I'm trying to pull Part II together right now and am interested to hear what you'd like to see in it. Leave a review telling me:**

 **1\. Something you want/hope for Gilbert.**

 **2\. A character/relationship you'd like to see updates for.**

 **3\. A lingering/unanswered question from Part I.**

 **I'll do my best to incorporate those into Part II!**

 **For any lit nerds out there, the title of Part II is "The Sun and the Other Stars," so make of that what you will.**

 **Thanks so much for reading and reviewing! I can't tell you what this project has meant to me.**

 **-elizasky**


	34. Chapter 1: Boston

Part II:

The Sun and the Other Stars

* * *

Chapter 1: Boston

* * *

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

30 August 1900

The suffocating heat of late summer clung to Boston harbor like damp marabou. Passengers descending the gangway seemed torn between joy at stepping onto dry land after six days at sea and disappointment at leaving the brisk North Atlantic for this unexpectedly tropical port.

Among the throng, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a well-made suit adjusted his hat. He walked sedately, neither hurrying nor delaying. Others craned their necks, eager to find familiar faces in the crowd, but there was no one waiting for him. He looked back once, marveling at the bulk of the vast ocean liner that had carried him from Southampton, then turned his face resolutely toward this unknown city.

* * *

Half an hour later, Gilbert Blythe leaned back to rest his head against the seat of the hired carriage. He really was dreadfully weary of travel. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, which was somewhat shorter than it once had been, and beginning to go silver at the temples. Not long now. Boston was a small city; he should arrive at his accommodations near Copley Square at any moment.

Gilbert still could not quite believe that he was here. Ten days ago, he had been working diligently at his laboratory bench in Netley, measuring the sedimentation of bacteria in an experimental patient's blood. Dr. Almroth Wright had interrupted, beckoning Gilbert to his tiny, cluttered office and offering him a chair that was already occupied by an untidy stack of medical journals.

"Dr. Blythe, I have made a decision," said Dr. Wright, cutting straight to the point. He was a slight, narrow-shouldered man who wore a perpetual frown under his dark thicket of mustache. His deep-set eyes burrowed under thick black brows, sloping down at the corners to mirror the dour curve of his mouth. A lock of his rapidly graying hair stood up from the back of his head, as it always did, impossible to tame even when the rest was neatly combed.*

Gilbert merely raised his eyebrows. After three years in Dr. Wright's lab, he knew that extraneous chatter was unnecessary. Dr. Wright would say what he had to say and politeness wouldn't come into it.

"I've had a letter from the States. They've followed our work and recognized its value. There is a typhoid laboratory at Harvard Medical School in Boston that has been running for some time with fairly limited results. They need a new director and have asked me to send someone familiar with our work. I'm sending you."

"Why me?" Gilbert asked simply.

"Three reasons, though one would be sufficient. First, you are an American . . ."

"I'm Canadian," Gilbert interrupted.

"Small difference, Blythe," said Dr. Wright, twitching an irritable hand at him. "You're from somewhere thereabouts. Second, you know everything there is to know about our work here. Collier is too new and Grantham can't be trusted on his own. You're the only one besides Dr. Semple and myself who could run a lab based on our principles and not make a hash of it. And third," Wright narrowed his eyes at Gilbert, "there is value in separation. Distance can bring clarity. You do not fear innovation, Dr. Blythe, and in your own lab you might devise methods or ideas that will push our work further. I hope that you will not merely copy what we do here, but challenge us to achieve greater success."

Gilbert was genuinely surprised. This was certainly the most encouraging thing Dr. Wright had ever said to him, or to anyone, ever, as far as he knew. Moreover, it was one of the most honest compliments he had ever received. Bald and inartful, it was nonetheless a gift, a clear assessment of his capabilities from a man who did not suffer incompetence. In after years, when the work was hard and the hours long, Gilbert would excavate this moment from his secret trove of sustaining memories to fuel his flagging heart.

"Thank you, Dr. Wright," he said somewhat dazedly. "When do I leave?"

"Immediately, Blythe! Or as near as possible. The _Oceanic_ departs from Southhampton at the end of the week and you'll be aboard. I've already telegraphed Dean Hilliard at Harvard. Here is his reply, along with an address for the lab and information about your housing."

Gilbert took the proffered papers, bristling internally at Wright's presumption. For all his brilliance, he was a difficult man to get along with, and Gilbert was not entirely sorry to have an honorable exit presented to him so neatly.

 _My own lab? At Harvard? I'll be so much closer to home._

He must write his parents at once. It had been impossible to return to Prince Edward Island in the past three years; Wright could never spare him for a whole month. But Boston was only a ferry ride away from Kingsport, and from there he could be home in a day.

By the time Gilbert reached his workbench, a whole new life had blossomed before him. He could go home for Christmas. Stop in Kingsport to see Phil and Jo. The children must be . . . goodness, Gordon had just turned eleven. Fred and Diana's children would be enormous as well.

Gilbert's imagination of his new lab was somewhat fuzzier. He had never been to Boston, never thought of working at a place like Harvard. He knew nothing of the lab he was supposed to direct. He grumbled a bit as he loaded his possessions into a crate. Dr. Wright really was the most infuriating person. Brilliant, yes, but imagine ordering accomplished doctors around as if they were ribbon clerks.

 _In my lab, I won't treat my subordinates this way._

He savored the words for a moment.

 _My lab._

Yes. With Dr. Wright's techniques, Harvard's resources, and his own determination, _salmonella typhi_ didn't stand a chance.

Gilbert slipped a finger into his waistcoat pocket, brushing against the scrap of linen with the green embroidered border.

 _Not a chance._

* * *

The cab stopped before a bank of impressive brick row houses on Marlborough Street. This was a fashionable neighborhood, leafy and well-kept, just two streets over from the wide promenade of Commonwealth Avenue.

Dean Hilliard's telegram had informed Gilbert that Harvard had arranged to install him in a rented house near the medical school. The Dean himself had seen to it that the place was furnished and a reliable housekeeper hired.

Gilbert consulted the telegram in his hand. _Mrs. Sarah Milligan_. He hoped she were in at the moment, since he had no key.

Double-checking the address, Gilbert climbed the steps to an expensive-looking oak door set with beveled glass. Triple-checked. Could this really be it? The addresses matched, so what was there to do but knock?

An angular woman in late middle-age answered the door. She wore a blue-and-white striped apron over her sensible work dress and a little cap atop her crown of ash blonde hair. Friendly blue eyes and a pleasant smile shone from her lined and eczema-reddened face as she peered up at Gilbert.

"You must be Dr. Blythe!" she exclaimed. "Welcome! Welcome! Do come in!"

Gilbert followed her inside, gazing around in some consternation at the quarters. This was . . . a house. Not an apartment or a dormitory, but a whole house. A city house, to be sure, long and narrow, less than ten meters across. But still.

The front door opened into a long, thin hallway. A staircase ran up the left-hand wall, presumably to sleeping quarters above. To the right, a wide entryway opened into the main living space: a cozy sitting room at the front of the house, a dining room in the middle, and a kitchen concealed behind a door at the back. The rooms Gilbert could see were furnished with comfortable, well-used pieces that seemed to have survived several previous occupants. If the furniture was perhaps a bit on the plush-and-overstuffed side for Gilbert's taste, it was at least lived-in.

Mrs. Milligan tutted and fussed, asking inconsequential questions about his trip and his first impressions of Boston. Gilbert answered her politely, tipped the cab driver for carrying his trunk up the front steps, and cast a longing look at the soft, red sofa by the sitting room fireplace.

When Mrs. Milligan excused herself to the kitchen to check on supper, Gilbert lugged his trunk up the stairs to the largest of three bedrooms. What would he ever do with three? Perhaps the sunny front room could serve as an office. There was a third floor as well, though it hardly seemed worthwhile even to heat it.

Collapsing on the bed, Gilbert took a moment to savor the sensation of neither rolling with the movement of a ship nor rattling over cobblestones. He didn't know yet whether Mrs. Milligan could cook, but the smell of fresh-baked biscuits wafting up from the kitchen augured well. She seemed a helpful sort. No doubt she'd be along soon to check on him or see if there was anything she could unpack.

This thought spurred Gilbert to action. Unlocking his trunk, he pushed aside clothing and paper-wrapped parcels, digging for the green-and-white hatbox at the bottom. It was somewhat battered at this point, having traveled to and from every place he had lived in the past thirteen years, but the lid still fit snugly and the seams were sound. After some deliberation, Gilbert slipped the box onto the top shelf in the wardrobe, where it fit as if the furniture had been made to accommodate its exact dimensions.

It may not have been home, not yet, but it was a good start.

* * *

 _Tuesday, 28 August 1900_

 _Dear Gilbert,_

 _I saw your mother this morning at Mr. Blair's store and she told me your news. How wonderful for you to get such a position! Of course, your mother was overjoyed. She mentioned that you will even be able to come home at Christmastime. That will be splendid! We've all missed you and long to see you._

 _Thank you for sending such lovely gifts for the children this summer. Sometimes I go into their rooms at night and find that they've fallen asleep over_ Sherlock Holmes _or_ The Jungle Book _. The Diamond Jubilee teacup you sent me still has pride of place in my china cabinet and visitors always admire it. Fred says that you needn't send him any souvenirs, but that he's quite anxious to toss you in a pond again. I'm sure I don't know what he's talking about and as it will be December when we see you, I hope that he is not serious._

 _Davy and Millie are doing a wonderful job with Green Gables. Of course, Matthew and Marilla always kept the place in good working order, but you know Davy's energy. He's always trying some new experiment with his crops or seeing what kind of feed will fatten the pigs up fastest. He really has grown into a nice young man. He often ropes Fred into his most outlandish schemes, particularly when Mr. Harrison declares that he has gone too far. But Fred likes him fine. And Millie is a nice woman, so sweet and busy. She bakes the most amazing pies. Small Anne Cordelia is quite wild over her and is always finding excuses to run over to Green Gables. I worried that she was a bother, but Millie assures me that little Mary and Emily adore her, so there's no harm in her going._

 _Dora had her baby three weeks ago — a girl this time. I won't tell you her name, but I'm sure you can guess it. Her boys stayed with Minnie May while she was lying in, and Minnie May says that the two of them are just like their uncle. That pleased Davy to no end, but Minnie May was glad to send them home. Her girls were once such timid little things, but I think that the Andrews boys must have rubbed off on them, if the racket I heard coming from the Haunted Wood the other evening is any indication. I must say that I wasn't entirely convinced when Minnie May decided to marry Frank Bell, but it is awfully nice to have her close by, and I know that she would hate to be too far from Dora._

 _I heard from Mrs. MacPherson that Moody Spurgeon has got a new church in Nova Scotia and is doing well. He married a girl from his last congregation and all the Avonlea ladies shook their heads at that, but Mrs. MacPherson reports that he is happy, so I will not pass any judgment on his method of courting. Charlie Sloane is just as he ever was. I do like his Nicole, though. She is such a help with the Ladies' Aid. What she sees in Charlie I can't tell. If anyone in Avonlea ever had to choose between the two of them, she would come out well ahead, believe me._

 _I haven't much other news to tell. Josie is married and living in Charlottetown and we don't hear much from her. Billy Andrews broke his leg getting thrown from a horse. Nettie and Mrs. Harmon have been fretting that he won't be able to work again, but Ralph told Fred that Billy's getting on fine and will be back in the fields come spring. I had a letter from Mrs. Irving last winter saying that Paul is married and living in New York. Is that close to where you will be in Boston? I am sorry that Mr. and Mrs. Irving aren't in Boston anymore — it would be so nice for you to have friends close by, but Mrs. Irving says that California is quite the most fascinating place she ever lived._

 _I hope that we will be able to spend some time with you at Christmas. If your mother can spare you, of course — I can't tell you how they've missed you, Gil. When I saw your mother this morning, I knew right away that something wonderful had happened because she was all lit up like a chandelier and I haven't seen her that way in a very long time. I'm sure your father will be glad to see you as well. No one has said anything very definite, but I think he has been feeling his age of late. He's offered to pay young Fred and Jack to help him bring in the apple harvest this year. I don't think he feels quite comfortable going up the ladders. I shouldn't wonder at his age. The boys are excited to earn a little money and I will bring Small Anne Cordelia over to help your mother with the preserves when they are through._

 _Please write to tell us how you are getting on in Boston. You are always welcome at Lone Willow Farm, and you'd better believe that you are expected at Christmas. Fred has threatened to come down and fetch you if you don't turn up on your own, so be forewarned._

 _I pray for you every day._

 _Love,  
_ _Diana_

* * *

*Dr. Almroth E. Wright, M.D., F.R.S. (1861-1947) was one of several researchers whose work led to the development of an effective typhoid vaccine in 1897. That untidy lock of hair is visible in several of his posed portraits.


	35. Chapter 2: First Impressions

Chapter 2: First Impressions

* * *

On Monday morning, Gilbert dressed carefully. He ran his fingers over the worn blue tie that he reserved for significant occasions, but ultimately decided that it was too shabby to make a good first impression on his staff. He placed it back in the drawer and selected an apple green instead.

* * *

At breakfast, Mrs. Milligan fussed, trying several times to press a cup of coffee into Gilbert's hand.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Milligan," he said, for the third time. "Just tea, please."

"Just tea" turned out to be tea, eggs, bacon, toast, and fried potatoes. Gilbert was nervous enough not to have much appetite, but he ate as much as possible and praised the food extravagantly. Mrs. Milligan beamed and straightened his tie without asking permission.

* * *

Harvard Medical School was a many-arched fortress of gray stone rising four stories above the hustle and hurry of Copley Square. Though the building was only two decades old, it was already much too small for a school that was rapidly expanding its research capacities as well as its curriculum in medical education. The fact that the third-floor typhoid lab had any space at all was a mark of the importance of its mission and the resources Harvard had dedicated to the cause of vaccine development.

When Gilbert walked through the laboratory door at nine o'clock, he found his staff already assembled. He knew that he would have four brilliant young doctors under his supervision, but he knew next to nothing about them, other than that they had reportedly been selected for this project using the most stringent criteria. He beheld them now: three young men and a woman, all dressed in smart black suits and white lab aprons. The men sported an elaborate array of facial hair, oiled and curled into impossible shapes. Together, they gave an overwhelming impression of well-heeled sophistication, if slightly on the fussy side. Before he had left Southampton, Gilbert had berated himself for spending altogether too much on an handsomely tailored new suit, but now, among his well-coiffed young associates, he was glad of the extravagance.

"Good morning," he said, pressing a hand to his waistcoat. "I am Dr. Gilbert Blythe. Dean Hilliard has selected me to supervise this laboratory as we continue our work to devise a safer and more effective vaccine for typhoid. I have spent the past three years working under Dr. Almroth Wright at the British Army Medical School, where we have made tremendous progress toward that goal. I have heard nothing but superlatives regarding your previous work from Dean Hilliard, and I look forward to working alongside you."

This speech was greeted by silence. Gilbert felt rather as he had on his first day at the White Sands schoolhouse, much more confident in his plans for the next year than the next minute.

The first of the young doctors to speak was a fair-haired man with a curled mustache and a self-satisfied smirk on his handsome face.

"Dr. Eliot Lowell," he said, shaking Gilbert's hand with almost overwhelming vigor. Gilbert flexed the muscles of his arm, determined not to let this confident young man best him. "I'm the old hand here," said Lowell. "I've been working on this project for two years."

Lowell gestured to his companions, introducing them in turn. Dr. John Appleton was a rotund little man with a receding hairline and an earnest face slightly pinched with nervous enthusiasm. The extravagantly bearded Dr. Thomas Cabot, grave and aloof, was the only one of the three to match Gilbert's height.

"Welcome to our humble laboratory, Dr. Blythe," Cabot intoned solemnly.

Gilbert turned expectantly to face the final member of his team, but Dr. Lowell offered no introduction. Indeed, the three men had turned inward toward one another, forming a tight crescent.

Nonplussed, Gilbert approached the young woman on his own. He extended a friendly hand and unleashed his winning smile.

She stood no higher than his shoulder. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe bun, with every strand pomaded into ruthless conformity. Deep brown eyes peered out beneath black, arched brows, meeting Gilbert's gaze with a steady frankness. She wore no jewelry, and no feminine adornment relieved the crisp lines of her smart black suit. Her long, white lab apron, identical to those the men wore, mitigated the difference in their attire.

As Gilbert approached, she made an odd gesture, clasping her left hand tightly as if to crack the knuckle of her third finger with her thumb. In the next instant, she extended her other hand, shaking Gilbert's with firmness and precision.

"I am Dr. Mary Parkman," she said, primly efficient.

"It is a pleasure to meet you Dr. Parkman."

* * *

Gilbert spent the bulk of his first day observing the workings of the lab and speaking to each of his subordinates in turn.

Each of the young doctors was in charge of some part of the laboratory. Dr. Parkman, a chemist, was responsible for attenuating live typhoid bacteria with oxygen, dilute carbolic acid, and other experimental preparations. Dr. Cabot, an epidemiologist, prepared individual doses of vaccine and led twice-weekly expeditions to administer them to patients in a special ward at Massachusetts General Hospital. Dr. Appleton, a bacteriologist, evaluated both the vaccines and the patients' blood, measuring the strength of the bacteria and the patients' resistance. Of course, all of the staff did everything else when necessary: Dr. Appleton accompanied Dr. Cabot to the hospital; Dr. Cabot helped prepare the chemicals for attenuation treatments; Dr. Parkman measured blood sedimentation when the patients' samples came in.

And Dr. Lowell . . . well . . . Gilbert was not exactly sure what Dr. Lowell did. Despite spending more than an hour with him and hearing all about the workings of various microscopes and experimental apparatus, Gilbert had no real idea either of Dr. Lowell's skillset nor his role in the lab. Resolving to find some clearly-defined task for his talkative underling tomorrow, Gilbert dismissed his staff for the day.

As the young doctors gathered their possessions and followed one another out of the lab, Gilbert rummaged behind his desk. He had brought a small crate of supplies with him this morning, but had had no time to unpack during the day. Now, he unwrapped a copper kettle, filled it, and set it to boil over a burner on his workbench. A tin of tea and several china cups and saucers went into the bottom drawer of the desk, along with a spoon and a packet of sugar cubes.

Just as he was closing the drawer, Gilbert heard the unmistakable click of glassware coming from the supply closet. Evidently, not everyone had left.

Crossing to the little room, Gilbert peeked in.

"Hello?"

Dr. Parkman was standing before the deep double sink, her sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in suds. Beside her on the counter, several piles of dirty glassware were balanced haphazardly on trays.

"Dr. Parkman? Forgive me; I thought everyone had gone home."

"Glassware needs to be cleaned," she answered, not bothering to turn.

"You certainly go through a lot of it," Gilbert commented, eyeing the heaps of beakers, flasks, and pipettes.

Dr. Parkman did turn then, scowling. "That's mine," she said, pointing a soapy finger at an orderly row of sparkling vessels already drying on a rack.

"Then all this . . . ?"

"That's Dr. Appleton's; that's Dr. Cabot's," she said, inclining her chin. "And that mess over there is Dr. Lowell's."

Gilbert was quite taken aback. "They just leave their glassware?"

"Always have."

"Dr. Parkman, you don't have to wash all this," Gilbert said, feeling unaccountably embarrassed.

"It needs to be washed," she replied without rancor.

"Well, at least let me help," he insisted, rolling up his own sleeves. Stepping toward the second sink, Gilbert reached over into the soapy basin in front of Dr. Parkman and hastily grasped a small boiling flask. As he lifted it toward his own sink, the glistening glass slipped through his fingers. It might have smashed against the basin, had not Dr. Parkman darted out a hand and caught it as it fell.

"Please," she sighed. "Just leave me to my work."

* * *

"Well, she must have had a reason, Gilbert!" Cora Blythe seethed, pacing her kitchen floor.

Gilbert ran his hand through his brown curls, wincing when his fingers encountered the tender lump on the crown of his head. Nothing his mother could say could make him feel worse than he already did, but he still hesitated to confess.

"I . . . teased her," he offered tepidly.

Cora stopped and looked him directly in the eye. "You'll have to do better than that, young man."

"I . . ." Gilbert swallowed. "I pulled her hair."

"You _what?!_ "

"And . . . called her 'Carrots.'"

" _Carrots?_ "

"Her hair's red, so . . ."

Cora closed her eyes and tilted her face to Heaven, exhaling loudly through her nose. "Gilbert. John. Blythe. You are nearly fourteen years old. You pulled this girl's hair? And teased her because it's red? I . . . I don't even know what to say to you."

"I said I was sorry," Gilbert mumbled dismally.

Cora pressed her lips together in fury and looked toward John, who sat opposite Gilbert, shaking with silent laughter. "John . . ." she pleaded.

John cleared his throat. "That was . . . very ungentlemanly of you, Gilbert," he croaked. "It sounds like she might be somewhat sensitive about her hair."

Cora snorted in disgust. "She doesn't have to be sensitive about her hair to be upset! Anyone would be! Especially someone new to Avonlea. You know she is an orphan in a new place; did it never occur to you what it might be like for her to be embarrassed in front of the whole school when she's just trying to get started here?"

Gilbert found that he had been wrong. He _could_ feel worse than he already did.

"Mother, I'm sorry. Really, truly sorry."

"It's not me you need to apologize to."

"I tried," Gilbert protested. "After school, I tried to apologize to her, but she wouldn't even look at me."

"I can't say I blame her," Cora sniffed.

"I'll try again," Gilbert promised.

"Too right you will. And you'll come straight home to your chores after school every day for the rest of the week, and no trip to White Sands with Fred on Saturday."

Gilbert nodded, feeling that the punishment was nothing to the nauseating guilt he felt. "I really am sorry, Mother," he said.

"Good." Cora turned toward the kitchen door and took a basket down from a nearby hook. "Now, I am going for a brisk walk in the orchard. When I come back, I expect the dishes to be done."

When the door slammed shut behind her, John cleared his throat again. He wasn't laughing anymore. "Gilbert . . ."

Gilbert looked up, hazel eyes brimming with tears. John's heart softened toward the boy, knowing that he was as distraught as his mother.

"The thing you need to remember, Gil, is that everyone has certain things that hurt them more than they might hurt others. I know you feel bad over what you did. I won't repeat what's already been said. But let this be a lesson to you. The world's a hard enough place as it is. Don't go around making misery when you could be kind."

"I'm really sorry, Dad."

"I know," John Blythe said, patting his son on the arm. "Come on now. I'll help you with those dishes."


	36. Chapter 3: Dr Parkman is Invited to Tea

Chapter 3: Dr. Parkman is Invited to Tea

* * *

The next morning, Gilbert assembled his staff. He had hoped to begin promptly at nine o'clock, but was forced to wait until Dr. Lowell arrived twenty minutes later. The others had already begun their preparations for the day when Gilbert called them away from their workbenches to gather in the open space in front of his desk.

"Let me begin by thanking you all for allowing me to observe you yesterday," Gilbert said, striving for a tone that was both collegial and authoritative. "I see that there is tremendous talent in this room, and I know that we can do excellent work together. I will need a few more days to observe and plan before we make any major changes in procedures or overall operations. For now, there are only two things I want to say: First, that medicine is an art, and each of you is an artist. As such, I want you to feel that you may always impress your own stamp on this work. If you have an idea, share it freely. If you think something could be done better than it is at present, speak up. You will always have permission to speak as long as I'm supervising this lab."

"Medicine isn't an art," Dr. Parkman piped up, a hint of irritation in her voice. "It's a science."

Gilbert smiled patiently. "Indeed, Dr. Parkman. We must always take care to support our own evaluations with empirical evidence. Quite right."

"I'd like to see a bit more of the empirical around here," Dr. Parkman continued, uncharmed. "Is it true that Dr. Almroth Wright argues for an experiential method in which doctors rely on their own impressions to evaluate whether a vaccine is working? That he rejects statistical methods and controlled trials?"

Gilbert was slightly taken aback. It was true enough; Dr. Wright was deeply skeptical of statistics. Many of his colleagues in England had recently begun questioning whether his laboratory data was reliable, inattentive as he was to questions of sample size, control groups, and the differences between mean, mode, and median.* But how had Dr. Parkman known any of that?

"You are correct, Dr. Parkman," Gilbert conceded. "Dr. Wright is not overly fond of statistics."

"Without statistics, how can we ever know whether one version of a vaccine has any advantage over another?" she asked, her steady gaze never wavering.

Dr. Lowell interjected, "Shouldn't it be enough to trust an experienced doctor? If a Fellow of the Royal Society like Dr. Wright has seen many applications of the vaccine, shouldn't his own evaluation of a new version's efficacy be enough?"

Drs. Cabot and Appleton nodded along with Dr. Lowell, but Dr. Parkman curled her lip. Gilbert winced. Privately, he agreed with Dr. Parkman — the mathematical deficiencies of Dr. Wright's techniques really were scandalous — but he had not meant to spark a full-fledged debate on his second day . . .

Instead of staking out a position, Gilbert opted to ask a question. "How do you analyze your data here?"

Silence.

"Dr. Parkman?" Gilbert probed.

"Not well," she muttered.

"Well then, perhaps that is a good place to begin making changes," Gilbert replied. "I don't have much of a background in statistics myself, coming from Dr. Wright's lab. But I'm willing to try out a system of data analysis if one of you is willing to devise one."

More silence.

Gilbert looked from one of his subordinates to the next. Dr. Lowell studied his shoes. Dr. Cabot adjusted his apron. Dr. Appleton merely stared off into the distance.

Only Dr. Parkman met his eye.

Gilbert raised an eyebrow, inviting her to speak.

"I'll do it," Dr. Parkman said, somewhat fiercely.

Gilbert could not quite read her tone. Was she eager for the challenge? Exasperated at the lack of ambition among her peers? Angry at being asked to take on extra duties? Oh, well. She had volunteered, hadn't she?

"Excellent," Gilbert said, clapping his hands once. "I look forward to hearing your proposal. Now, shall we get back to work?"

"What was the second thing?" Dr. Parkman asked.

"I'm sorry?" Gilbert replied.

"You said that you had two things to say," she said impatiently.

"Oh, yes," Gilbert brightened. Addressing the staff in general, he said, "Despite certain failings of Dr. Wright's lab, I would like to implement some of his procedures here. Nothing onerous to start with. But, from now on, the policy of this lab will be that each of us will clean our own glassware before leaving for the day. Is that understood?"

Drs. Appleton and Cabot nodded agreeably. Dr. Lowell scowled. Gilbert felt a slight flicker of satisfaction at the obvious surprise in Dr. Parkman's wide, brown eyes.

* * *

On Saturday morning, Gilbert climbed the stairs to the third-floor lab feeling optimistic. Finally, he could get some work done with no one else around. Maybe sort through the overstuffed filing cabinet by his desk, have a nice cup of tea . . .

He was startled to find the lights on and the door unlocked. Tapping hesitantly as he stepped through the door, he found Dr. Parkman sitting at her workbench, shuffling through a sheaf papers. Several large reference books were stacked at one elbow and a tidy pile of notebooks at the other.

She looked up sharply as he entered.

"Dr. Parkman," Gilbert said in surprise. "Forgive me, I didn't expect to find anyone here today."

Dr. Parkman squared the edges of the papers she had been reading. "Dr. Blythe. I did not expect you either."

"Do you often work Saturdays?" Gilbert asked, setting his satchel down on his desk.

"Yes," she answered simply. "Particularly when I have a lot of work to do and need quiet in which to do it."

Gilbert looked at the spines of the reference books. Statistics.

"You needn't do that statistics project unless you want to," he assured her. "I didn't mean it as extra work for you."

Dr. Parkman shook her head. "No. It needs to be done. Our previous supervisor shared Dr. Wright's aversion to statistics and I think it has held our work back."

"Do you have any background in statistics?" Gilbert asked, curious.

"I was first in my mathematics classes at Boston University." Dr. Parkman answered primly. "All of them."

Gilbert nodded. "Well, carry on, Dr. Parkman. I have my own work to do and hope that I will not to distract you from yours."

Dr. Parkman turned back to her papers, seemingly unconcerned. If she glanced sideways as Gilbert began to unload files from the cabinet beside his desk, he did not notice.

* * *

An hour later, Gilbert stood and stretched. Forget statistics. What the lab needed was a filing system. He was reluctant to throw anything away, but without proper order, these piles of notes were worse than useless. Sighing, he filled his copper kettle and set it over the burner on his workbench.

While the water boiled, Gilbert went into the supply closet to check on the glassware. All week, he had inspected the beakers and flasks at the end of each day to be sure that the staff adhered to his policy. Dr. Parkman's drying rack required minimal attention. The orderly rows of gleaming glass exhibited the same clockwork precision as her attire. Dr. Appleton and Dr. Cabot had cleaned their equipment adequately, though Gilbert had spoken to both of them about laying the clean vessels neatly in their drying racks, rather than leaving them higgledy-piggledy on towels on the counter.

And then there was Dr. Lowell. Gilbert sighed again. Was the man even trying? On the first day of the new policy, Gilbert had been glad to see Lowell standing at the sink before he left for the evening. Unfortunately, closer inspection revealed that standing was all he was doing. Gilbert found test tubes rimed with residue, beakers clouded with goodness-knew-what, and Pasteur pipettes still holding liquid of various colors.

"I guess I'm just not as skilled at domestic tasks as some others are," Lowell had shrugged when Gilbert pulled him aside to address the matter.

Reluctant to ascribe bad faith, Gilbert had stood with Lowell that evening, demonstrating the proper way to rinse, scrub, and rinse again to remove all traces of contamination. Now, examining Lowell's glassware again, Gilbert was perplexed to find that half of it still bore unmistakeable smudges.

"Your water is boiling," Dr. Parkman called from the lab.

Gilbert left the dirty glassware where it was, washing his hands quickly in the double sink. He hurried out to his workbench, drying his hands as he walked. After turning the burner off, he fished the tea canister and strainer from his desk drawer, pausing over the cups.

"Dr. Parkman? Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked.

"No, thank you," she replied, never looking up from her work.

* * *

*The real Dr. Almroth Wright was notorious for his distrust of statistics. It was a problem.


	37. Chapter 4: Receptions

Chapter 4: Receptions

* * *

One Saturday evening in November, Gilbert paused to adjust his white bow tie. He could have lived another several lifetimes in perfect felicity without ever attending another formal reception, but Dean Hilliard did insist. Harvard was in the midst of an ambitious capital campaign to raise money for a new medical school campus and it was all hands on deck to butter up the donors. Dean Hilliard himself had stopped by the lab yesterday to confirm that the entire staff would be in attendance.

Tolerably sure that he was presentable, Gilbert peered through the doors into the crowded reception room. At least two hundred of Harvard's wealthiest alumni and their brilliantly-attired wives mingled with the medical professors, researchers, and those members of the science faculty who had been unable to evade Dean Hilliard's aggressive recruitment. Gilbert even spotted a handful of the most promising medical students being pressed into service. He grimaced sympathetically. _Godspeed, boys_.

"Aren't you going in?"

Gilbert jumped at the voice at his elbow. He looked down to see Dr. Parkman glaring at him, her direct, brown gaze disconcerting in its bluntness. She wore smart black silk, not notably different from her ordinary laboratory attire, except in the fineness of the material and the intricate row of tiny buttons running up one side of the bodice, lending her a martial air.

"Dr. Parkman," he replied with a little bow. "How nice to see you. Yes, I was just about to go in."

Gilbert reached to open the door for her, but Dr. Parkman, appearing thoroughly unimpressed, beat him to it. With a blink that might have hidden a roll of her eyes, she stepped into the reception hall, letting the door close behind her. Gilbert caught it at the last instant and followed her in.

Inside, the hum of chatter and clinking glasses was overwhelming. Men in swallowtails and women in shimmering nets of sequined silk and chiffon conversed in small groups; waiters in crisp livery passed trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres.

Gilbert glanced around the hall, attempting to orient himself. It was the sort of room that was intended to impress, with the result that any individual feature taken on its own was inherently preposterous. There was the enormous marble fireplace, so huge that Gilbert could have stepped inside with plenty of room to spare. Overhead, an immense chandelier made entirely of antlers glowed with electric bulbs. On the walls, formal portraits of eminent Harvard men in flowing robes of black and crimson were stacked one on top of another from wainscoting to ceiling. Gilbert had always thought of Redmond as a place of wealth and power, but he suddenly felt himself quite the Islander again, wondering what on earth he was doing in this place, among these people.

When he finally spotted a familiar face, he grimaced. Lowell. No help for it — the younger man was beckoning him over, introducing him to a knot of prosperous-looking gentlemen.

"Dr. Blythe!" Dr. Lowell shouted over the din. "Allow me to present my uncle, Abbott Lawrence Lowell, Professor of Government."

Gilbert shook hands with the lavishly-mustached man with the protuberant eyes, struggling mightily not to think of Charlie Sloane.

"Be kind to Uncle Abbott, Dr. Blythe," Lowell said with jovial aplomb. "He has a building or two to donate, I understand."*

Gilbert was introduced around the group, noticing that most of the assemblage seemed to be Lowells or Eliots of one sort or another. It was good to know exactly how well-connected Dr. Lowell was, if only to be on guard.

A moment later, Gilbert jumped when a meaty hand thumped him soundly on the back.

"Dr. Blythe! Meeting our illustrious alumni, I see," said Dean Hilliard, a broad smile stretching his features. To the group at large, he said, "Dr. Blythe joins us from England. He's been working with Dr. Almroth Wright at the British Army Medical School on the development of the typhoid vaccine."

The group's interest in Gilbert, polite before, was considerably heightened by this introduction. He spent the next quarter hour answering a barrage of admiring questions about Dr. Wright, advancements in bacteriology, and the promising future of vaccination.

"That is why our work here is so important," Gilbert explained. "With improved laboratories and funding, we can keep working to make vaccination safer and more effective. That won't just help save civilian lives; it will also win wars. Just look at the British Army in South Africa: we've spent the last year vaccinating every British soldier we can lay hands on. Un-immunized regiments have lost thousands of soldiers to typhoid, but there have been only a handful of deaths in regiments that have received immunization. In every previous war, more men have died of disease than of wounds, but we're turning the tide. When the next war comes, we'll be ready for it."**

The Harvard men nodded and murmured their approval. Dean Hilliard beamed at Gilbert, certain that such an appeal to both humanitarian and patriotic sentiments would loosen a few purse strings.

Sometime later, the group broke up into smaller conversations and Gilbert sensed a chance for escape. He had surely fulfilled his duties, and in full view of Dean Hilliard, no less. Perhaps he could just slip away . . .

Gilbert wove through the crowd, finding himself funneled toward the oversized fireplace by the press of the crowd. There, he spotted Dr. Parkman, deep in conversation with a bald, red-faced man whom Gilbert recognized as the chair of the chemistry department. She seemed to be arguing a point, gesturing emphatically and responding ardently to the professor's comments. Gilbert caught her eye and nodded as he attempted to sidle by.

The chemistry professor followed Dr. Parkman's line of sight toward Gilbert. "Oh! You must be Dr. Blythe!" he exclaimed, interrupting whatever Dr. Parkman had been saying.

Gilbert shook the man's hand and smiled. "At your service, Professor . . ."

Dr. Parkman sighed. "Dr. Blythe, this is Professor Choate. Professor Choate, Dr. Blythe."

"Delighted! Delighted, Dr. Blythe. We hear excellent reports of your work."

"Thank you, sir."

"Are you on your way out?" Dr. Parkman asked pointedly.

"Er . . . yes," Gilbert answered. "I was just attempting to fight my way toward the door."

"Goodbye, then," Dr. Parkman chirped. Turning back to Professor Choate, she picked up where she had left off. "You must see, Professor Choate, that Professor Curie's work will revolutionize . . ."

Thus dismissed, Gilbert took his leave.

* * *

It was not very late. Gilbert wished to slough off the feel of the crowd, the press of people. Unfortunately, the doors of Harvard Medical School disgorged him into the midst of Copley Square, which was not notably less cramped than the reception room.

What he really needed were trees.

In the midst of Boston, there was nowhere wild, nowhere secluded. There was not even a rambling sanctuary like the park in Kingsport where he had spent so many happy hours as an undergraduate. He made his way down the elm-lined promenade of Commonwealth Avenue, a pleasant enough walk, but the rigid geometry of the mall provided poor prospects for refuge.

At the end, though, stood the Public Garden. A green splash of meandering paths and spreading trees arranged around a central pond, the Public Garden at least resisted some of the sounds of the city. In truth, it was more like the landscaped garden of an English country house than a natural place, but it would have to do.

In September, there had been ducks and swans on the pond. Now, as November shaded degree by degree toward winter, the edges of the pond were frozen, the trees leafless. Nevertheless, Gilbert found safe harbor on a bench shielded by the overhanging boughs of a weeping willow. If he half-closed his eyes, he could nearly imagine himself in Kingsport, though not Avonlea.

* * *

Gilbert sat on a bench, breathing the salt air off Kingsport harbor. The trees here had dropped their leaves, but there were enough firs in the park to provide the shelter he sought. Here, behind a screen of evergreens, no one would find him, even if there had been anyone to come looking.

 _If ever any great sorrow came to me, I would come to the pines for comfort . . ._ ***

He tore the white gloves from his hands and stuffed them into a pocket. Another uncomfortable evening, starched collar digging into his neck, formal coat constricting his shoulders. And Christine still looking at him with that half-pitying, half-embarrassed look.

"You know, Gil, my brother could recommend an excellent tailor . . ."

Christine was good cover. She diverted Redmond's attention from his heartbreak. But if the price of her company was one tedious reception or gala or concert after another, Gilbert didn't think he could stand it much longer.

"You look exquisitely lovely tonight, Anne."

Gilbert's head shot up at the sound of the low, velvety voice from the other side of the concealing firs.

 _Surely not . . ._

"Thank you," came the sweet reply, the voice he would have known anywhere. "I was always fond of this color. It reminds me of springtime and apples and . . ."

"You are the very vision of perfection. My Titian goddess."

Gilbert did not stay to hear more. Under cover of the shading trees, he backed away slowly, then dashed across the lawn and into the night. How had everything gone so terribly, horribly wrong?

* * *

*Abbot Lawrence Lowell was a real person. In 1901, he donated a lecture hall to Harvard (it is named after him). He served as president of the university from 1909-1933.

**The anti-typhoid vaccination program run by the British Army during the second Boer War (1899-1902) was one of the first large-scale vaccination schemes. During WWI, both the British and American armies vaccinated their soldiers against typhoid, virtually eliminating a danger that had been one of the major causes of death during 19th-century wars.

***Anne to Gilbert, _Anne of the Island_ , chapter 6


	38. Chapter 5: An Avonlea Family Christmas

Chapter 5: An Avonlea Family Christmas

* * *

It was a relief to go home to Avonlea for Christmas. The house on Marlborough Street was only a place; Gilbert was hardly ever there, and when he was, he still felt like a visitor. At night, after Mrs. Milligan had gone home, he would close every possible door in an attempt to make the empty space feel smaller. Perhaps he could do something to make the house feel more like his own. Gilbert wondered whether his parents still had the braided rug that Marilla had made and he had taken from Green Gables so long ago. He had a hearth now.

* * *

In Kingsport, Phil's rapturous greeting nearly knocked him off his feet.

"Gilbert Blythe!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "Let me get a look at you, honey. Just as handsome as ever! Boston agrees with you?"

"Let the man breathe, Phil," Jo admonished before pulling Gilbert into a hug of his own.

"It's wonderful to see you both," Gilbert smiled. "It's been . . ."

"Nearly four years!" Phil exclaimed, her crooked smile radiant. "Can you imagine? You'll never know the boys. Gordon! Olly! Come downstairs this instant! Your Uncle Gil is here!"

Gordon Blake —could this brown-curled schoolboy possibly be baby Gordon? — hurried down the stairs and accepted a hug from Gilbert. Seven-year-old Olly, attired in a cardboard breastplate and feather-duster Roman helmet, hung back.

"I know you probably don't remember me, Olly," Gilbert said, crouching down. "But I've brought you a Christmas gift. All the way from England."

Reaching into his satchel, Gilbert produced two brightly-wrapped parcels and handed one to each of the Rev. Jo's boys.

The diminutive centurion screeched with joy when the gift proved to be a rank of tiny tin soldiers, brilliant in the tartan and feather bonnets of a Highland regiment. Olly wasted no time on thanks, lifting each figure reverently and setting them on parade right in the middle of the hall.

"Thanks, Uncle Gil," said Gordon, clutching his own toy soldiers, as well as a new book from the States: _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_.

Gilbert ruffled the boy's hair, feeling an odd mixture of joy and heartache in seeing him grown so tall and poised.

"Tea!" Phil exclaimed, dispelling any whiff of melancholy. "Oh, Gil, I'm wild to hear all your news. It's just like old times."

* * *

Gilbert was nowhere near done with euphoric reunions. On the night before Christmas Eve, he stepped off the train at Carmody and into a bear hug from Fred Wright.

"Finally remembered where we live, did you?" Fred asked, thumping Gilbert on the back.

"It's wonderful to see, you Fred," Gilbert said, beaming. "How's Diana? And the children?"

"In a frenzy," Fred chortled. "Even more than usual. You'll come have tea with us tomorrow? I don't think Di can wait for Christmas Day to see you."

"Sure. I'm here through the New Year, so I have plenty of time."

"Through the New Year?" Fred said, surprised. "That's a respectable holiday for once, my friend."

"Well, I am the boss now," Gilbert chuckled. "Though I shudder to think what I might find at the lab after leaving it unsupervised for ten days."

"Won't your staff have gone home for Christmas?"

"I hope so. If not, they might blow the place up. Or murder one another."

"It's going well, then?" Fred asked.

"It's . . . it's something else, that's for sure. But I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. Right now, I just want to get home."

* * *

As Fred drove the sleigh down the lower Carmody Road and into Avonlea, Gilbert absorbed every detail of the snow-frosted landscape. Lights twinkled at the Harrisons' and Orchard Slope. On a willow-shaded hill, Green Gables glowed with firelight and candles in every window. As they passed the old Lynde place, now home to Dora and Ralph Andrews, Gilbert let himself relax into calm, deep breaths that filled his lungs with Island air. Avonlea was just a place, he knew. But it was a place that knew him, enfolded him in a way no other place did.

When the sleigh stopped at the gate to the Blythe homestead, Gilbert shook Fred's hand and retrieved his suitcase with promises of tea on the morrow. He let himself in through the gate and stood for a moment, staring at the small house, golden light shining through its windows and smoke puffing up from its chimney. Before he had taken a single step forward, the door opened and Cora Blythe stepped out into the gently-falling snow. Behind her, John stood in the doorway, a quilt wrapped around his shoulders. Cora said nothing, but met Gilbert on the path, engulfing him in an ardent embrace.

"Merry Christmas, Mama," Gilbert whispered, kissing her on the cheek.

* * *

On Christmas Eve, Gilbert made a solitary pilgrimage. He had several hours before he was due at the Wrights', and he meant to use them well. He dressed warmly against the December chill, wrapping a dove gray scarf snugly around his neck. Packing a flask of hot tea, a thick woolen blanket, and a posy of holly, he set out to climb the hill overlooking the Lake of Shining Waters.

He had not been back to the Avonlea graveyard since the day he said farewell and left for Glen St. Mary more than thirteen years before. In the early years, he would always arrange his visits home to be as short as possible, leaving little time for any sort of rambles; later, when he began staying a bit longer, he had merely avoided the place.

Now, Gilbert walked with purpose. It was foolish, perhaps, to visit a graveyard. She wasn't there any more or less than she was everywhere. Surely the place could not matter so much. But he had long ago stopped questioning the odd imperatives of grief.

Reaching the gate, Gilbert was pleased to see that no footprints marred the thin layer of snow. Good. He was alone, and likely to stay that way. The day was cold enough to deter any casual visitors.

He let himself in and traced his way among the headstones to the correct spot as if he had visited a thousand times, rather than once. It was there, beside Matthew's grave, white marble under whiter snow. No, even in winter, he didn't like those carved flowers.

Gilbert was surprised to find an empty space next to the marble monument. He had expected that Marilla would be buried on her other side, but no; Marilla's memorial, as plain and unadorned as her brother's, stood beside Matthew's headstone instead. Who had done that and why?

Gilbert unfolded his blanket and laid it over the snowy grave. Sitting down, he felt suddenly shy.

 _Ridiculous. Just talk._

"Hello," he began, stopping to clear his throat when the word came out more faintly than he had intended. "I brought you some holly. Merry Christmas. It's been . . . a while. I'm sorry I stayed away so long. At first, I just couldn't come back, and then, well, I've been away. In England. There's a lab there, where the British Army is developing a vaccine for typhoid. It works, it really does. I've been helping Dr. Almroth Wright — he's one of the researchers who came up with the vaccine — and I really think our work will save lives. Lots of lives. You would hate him. Dr. Wright, I mean. I'm not really that fond of him myself, but I guess I don't have to worry too much about him anymore. I've moved to Boston now. I have my own lab . . ."

Gilbert talked on and on, saying everything he could think to say. Surely, she would not have cared about the details of his work, whether an oxygen bath or a treatment with dilute carbolic acid was more effective at attenuating typhoid bacteria, but it somehow seemed important to relate every possible bit of information.

There was less to say about his life outside of the lab. He spoke of Mrs. Milligan, of Harvard's bombast, of the ducks in the Public Garden.

"I imagine Diana keeps you informed of the Avonlea news, and Phil's news, too. They're great friends still, Diana and Phil. They don't see one another often, but Fred says they write at least once a week, just as they promised long ago."

When Gilbert ran out of things to say, he sat in silence. The ground was cold, the winter wind biting. He felt that he should take his leave, go home to warm up before heading over to Lone Willow Farm. If he had known how to say farewell, he would have. Instead, he only sat, the snow falling in cold, silent flurries around him.

* * *

Christmas Day dawned bright and clear, the new-fallen snow sparkling on the winter fields and crusting the firs with frosty splendor. Gilbert let the crisp air fill him as he drove the sleigh toward Orchard Slope. His parents sat bundled in the back, draped in blankets and an old bearskin to keep out the chill. The landscape around them had not changed much since the old days, a decidedly mixed blessing.

But for all the appearance of sameness, life had not stood still here.

Gilbert had always thought of the area surrounding Green Gables as a quiet corner of Avonlea. The younger Lyndes were all grown up by the time he had been old enough to notice, and there were no other large families in the neighborhood. It had been possible, once upon a time, to walk through the Haunted Wood or down Lover's Lane without the prospect of ambush from roving packs of children.

This was no longer the case. Between the Keiths, Andrewses, Bells, and Wrights, there were nearly a dozen children already and often one or two more on the way. In springtime, Violet Vale rang with their laughter; in summer, the Dryad's Bubble grew cloudy with the stomping, splashing merriment of sunburned feet. Fred Wright, Jr., at thirteen, had recently begun to consider himself far too old to participate in the wild escapades of the young mob, but Small Anne Cordelia, newly twelve, and Jack Wright, ten, gloried in leading their adoring flock in all manner of misadventure.

"It's not so bad when the weather is fine," Diana had assured Gilbert. "Then they just roam all our old haunts out of doors and all you have to do is call them in for tea. But in winter, they take over one house on one day and another the next. It's lovely when Mother or Mrs. Harrison has them all over for an afternoon, but when they're here, it's like a visitation of locusts."

The Barrys and the Harrisons reveled in their somewhat unexpected roles as grandparents-to-many. Both Diana and Minnie May would take any opportunity to complain that their parents must have used up all their strictness on them, as they certainly had little enough left over for the current batch of small fry. Neither the Barrys nor the Harrisons made much distinction among the grandchildren, claiming and loving them all.

Indeed, every house in the neighborhood had been brought into the orbit of this unusual extended family in one way or another. It would have been uncharitable to Minnie May to suggest that she had finally chosen to marry Frank Bell over Ned Clay merely because the former stood to inherit his father's farm. Still, the fact that Mr. William Bell's land stood so close to both Orchard Slope and Lone Willow Farm certainly did not count against Frank in that fair maiden's calculations.

And, of course, the Barrys regarded Dora as one of their girls as well. When she had married Ralph Andrews eight years ago, Dora had despaired at the thought of leaving Davy and the Barrys, even for another farm in Avonlea. Davy had given over much of his share of the inheritance from their uncle to help Ralph buy the old Lynde place for her, but the previous owner had been a quarrelsome sort and reluctant to sell. Fred had confided to Gilbert that a certain delicately-worded request from Diana to Mrs. Harry Inglis, née Jane Andrews, had decided the matter, allowing Ralph to offer a price that the previous occupant simply could not refuse.

Today, the lot of them packed into Orchard Slope for the merriest Christmas dinner Avonlea had seen in many years. The house was stuffed to bursting, everyone shouting, laughing, and getting in one another's way. The Andrews boys had a jolly time sliding down the banister until Mr. Harrison threatened to throw them out into the snow. Ralph Andrews and Frank Bell spent the better part of an hour attempting to devise some geometry that would allow everyone to sit together in the dining room before giving up and setting a table for the children in the sitting room. After the third broken dish, Mrs. Barry declared that there were entirely too many cooks in her kitchen and expelled everyone but Diana and Cora.

Uncle Gil was hailed as the hero of the hour when he quelled some of the chaos by producing a satchelful of exquisite paper dolls and more of the tin soldiers that had so enthralled Olly Blake. The children were immediately hypnotized, settling down before the sitting room fire to cut out dolls or set up intricate military drills, according to preference.

"What, no more whistles?" Fred Wright asked, jabbing Gilbert in the ribs.

"Well, not when _I_ have to be cooped up inside with them, that's for sure," Gilbert shrugged.

Dinner was delightful; pudding was jolly. Sitting near the middle of the long table, a cup of tea before him, Gilbert took another opportunity to breathe deeply. As unobtrusively as possible, he slipped a finger into his waistcoat pocket, feeling the familiar brush of linen there. Around him, chatter and laughter filled air thick with the scents of woodsmoke and gingerbread. Dora danced baby Nan before the hearth; Millie and Minnie May bustled about clearing dishes; Fred and Davy were deep in conversation about spring plans for the lower field at Green Gables. Amid the tumult, Gilbert sat perfectly still, drinking them all in, storing them away in his heart.

* * *

On Christmas night, Cora went to bed early, worn out by the day's excitement. Gilbert and John lingered over cups of tea in the sitting room, watching a thick log of apple wood burn in the fireplace.

"There's something I wanted to ask you, Gil," John said between sips of tea.

Gilbert sat up straighter, put on alert by his father's unusually formal tone.

"Doctor or not, you've probably noticed that I'm getting on in years. Not as sprightly as I once was. I couldn't even go up the ladders at harvest this year."

"Diana said you hired her boys to help," Gilbert said. "Was that enough? We could hire another hand next year . . ."

"The harvest was fine. That's not it. I'm not going to be around forever, Gil."

"Dad . . ."

John waved a hand. "It's only true. I'm not. I've lived my threescore and ten and some more besides. The way I see it, I've been living on borrowed time for thirty years. And I'm grateful. I've lived a full life. I've worked hard, I've loved your mother, I even got to see you grow up. Don't be sorry for me."

"But, Dad. There's no need to talk like this. You're in good health for your age, especially given your history. You could have years left."

John chortled. "Perhaps. Or perhaps not. I'm closer to eighty than to seventy, Gilbert. At this age, things could turn pretty quickly. I might have years left, but I could also pick up a bad cold or have another fall at any time. There's no way of knowing. But that isn't what troubles me."

Gilbert waited.

"It's your mother," John sighed. " She's quite a bit younger than I am. You see her, still baking and gardening and running all over the countryside trying to fix everyone's problems. She's the one with years left. And I can't rest easy until I know she's going to be cared for."

"What can I do, Dad?"

John met the hazel eyes that were so like his own. "Would you consider bringing her to Boston with you? After I'm gone."

Perhaps Gilbert should not have been surprised, but he was. He had thought his father might wish him to move back home, or to make arrangements for his mother to move in with the Fletchers, but he had never envisioned Cora Blythe in Boston. Gilbert thought of all his empty, echoing bedrooms, tried to imagine his mother in one of them.

"Of course, Dad. If she wants to come. Do you think she would want to? Boston is . . . it's not like here. It's a . . . a lonelier life."

John Blythe studied his son, unsure just how much to ask.

"I think she'd rather be with you than anywhere else. See that you're looked after."

Gilbert snorted. "I thought you wanted me to look after her."

"That, too."

They sat in silence for a moment, watching yuletide flames dance on the hearth.

"How are you, Gilbert?" John asked. "Really. Your mother's not here; you can tell me."

Gilbert blew out a breath. "I'm fine, Dad. Everything is fine. I work six days a week. Sometimes seven. The lab is sort of a mess, but I think we have the potential to do good work if I can actually get everyone working together. And I'm fine. Mrs. Milligan feeds me well."

John regarded his son narrowly. "Can you go on like that forever?"

"I don't know," Gilbert sighed. "I don't really think too much about the future. I'm getting along fine right now, focusing on the lab. And that's enough."

"Have you considered doing anything more . . . social? Joining a church, maybe?"

"No. Look, Dad, I know you're trying to help. And I appreciate it. But I'm fine."

John did not know how to say what was in his heart, how much it troubled him to think that his bright, funny, laughing boy would walk all his life in this sort of stupor. Work was well and good. A man needed work. And work was enough for some, John reflected, thinking of Matthew Cuthbert. But even Matthew had come alive in his last five years. John gritted his teeth against the possibility that Gilbert would work and wait his life away, never becoming the man he should have been.

"Just . . ." John began, faltering. "Just take care of yourself. And your mother. Put my mind at ease."

Gilbert nodded. "Of course, Dad. Don't worry about either of us."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I have heard your wishes, o faithful reviewers. I have been extremely anxious to put these chapters in front of you, but it seems that I am posting too fast for optimal enjoyment.**

 **So I'm going to try to slow down. If I can. It's going to be a struggle — I generally love reading all the angsty, drawn-out stories on this site, but am rather desperate to drag Gilbert out of purgatory here. But I have heard you and will try going to an every-other-day posting schedule.**

 **Thanks for the feedback — let me know what else is working and what is not! Every review makes my day because it means that someone is actually reading what I'm writing, which is still astonishing and miraculous. Thanks especially to LizzyEastwood and the guest posters who are catching up and joining in! I'm so grateful to hear that this story has touched you in some way. And as always, thanks to Catiegirl, Kim Blythe, AnneNGil, and the others who have encouraged me all along.**

 **-elizasky**


	39. Chapter 6: Epicene Conditions

Chapter 6: Epicene Conditions

* * *

Gilbert sat at his desk, surrounded by piles of papers and notebooks. The nib of his pen was worn to a stub; he really needed to buy a new one.

All at once, the door banged open. Charlie Sloane stormed into the room, stomping his feet and throwing his books onto his bed so that they scattered. He tore the hat from his head and began to unlace his muddy boots with quick, jerky movements.

"Having a good afternoon, Charlie?" Gilbert asked.

"That . . . wretched . . . girl . . ." Charlie grunted as he struggled with his boots.

Gilbert felt his face flush immediately. There was generally only one girl who could whip Charlie into such a lather.

"Who?" he asked, the soul of innocence.

"Priscilla Grant!" Charlie groused.

Gilbert felt himself relax a bit, though only a bit.

"Priscilla Grant?" Gilbert inquired with the air of someone who did not know Priscilla Grant's course schedule by heart.

"You know. That tall blonde girl who's always chumming around with Anne. The one with the long, wavy hair," said Charlie, finally managing to pull off a boot.

"Oh, yes. I think I know who you mean. What happened?"

"She did it on purpose," Charlie muttered.

"Did what?"

"Professor Hamilton had some of us stay after to practice recitations. You know how he's always going on about elocution and all that. He had us stand up at the podium and recite, and then the audience would offer advice."

"I take it your recitation did not go well," said Gilbert, struggling valiantly to hide his smirk.

"It would have been fine!" Charlie snapped. "But Priscilla Grant was sitting in the front row. She caught my eye while I was reciting and . . . she . . . well, you know that hair of hers. She just stared right at me and started twisting her hair around her finger. And she wouldn't look away! And I . . . well, my selection went right out of my head and I just stood there like an idiot! She did it on purpose, I know she did!"

Whatever powers of self-control Gilbert may have had were not equal to the task of squelching his laughter.

"It's not funny!" Charlie blazed. "These girls, they're nothing but distractions! Wouldn't it be better if we could just focus on our lessons without having to worry about them? Take you, for instance. Think of what you might be able to accomplish if you weren't spending half your time mooning over Anne."

Anne's name sent a jolt through Gilbert, as it always did. He raised his defenses.

"I do not spend half my time mooning over Anne."

"Three-quarters, then."

"I don't! And she's not a distraction!" Gilbert protested.

"No?" Charlie asked. "Then why are you always finding excuses to be wherever she is? Oh, I see you, going out of your way to walk by her in the halls or sit where you can have a good view. You're not fooling anybody."

Gilbert was blushing scarlet by this point. "Anne's not a distraction. She's . . . she's the competition! If I want a shot at the gold medal, I'll have to beat her. You know that."

"Just think," Charlie said, "if there were no girls at Queen's, you wouldn't have to beat her. You'd win the gold medal no problem. Wouldn't that be better?"

Gilbert guffawed. "You know, Charlie, you can be a real idiot."

Charlie glared. "Yes, thank you. I believe all of Queen's is in agreement on that point."

"Not the recitation," Gilbert waved him away. "You really think Anne makes school more difficult for me? If I weren't trying to keep up with her, I wouldn't work half as hard as I do. It would be too easy to coast. Anne keeps me on my toes."

"Well, see how you like it when she's at Redmond and you aren't," Charlie spat. "That Avery Scholarship is in English and you'll never catch her there. She'll be off to Kingsport next fall and you'll be teaching the ABCs to a bunch of brats in West Grafton."

Gilbert scowled, but there was nothing to say to this. It was only true.

"Perhaps I'll go to Redmond with her," Charlie mused, seemingly unable to help himself. "Mother wants me to complete both years at Queen's, but it isn't really necessary. I don't mean to teach school. I'm sure I could convince her that I'll be ready for Redmond in the fall."

Gilbert wondered briefly whether throwing Charlie through the boarding house window would kill him or merely injure him to a satisfying degree. Instead, he turned back to his books with seeming unconcern.

"Suit yourself, Charlie. Just hope Priscilla Grant doesn't go, too."

* * *

Gilbert sat at his desk, a pot of tea at his elbow. Outside, wet gobs of slush spattered against the window, freezing into a thick coating of ice that glittered under the street lamps of Boston. Gilbert had dismissed his subordinates when the weather began to turn and all had left eagerly, except for Dr. Parkman. She sat at her workbench, resolutely entering figures into her ledger and pausing every few minutes to sneeze.

After saying "bless you" for the dozenth time, Gilbert sighed. "Dr. Parkman? Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you," came the reply, somewhat muffled by her handkerchief.

"Then go home. You're ill. You should be resting."

"I'll go when I've finished this week's data," Dr. Parkman replied, taking her pen in hand.

Gilbert pressed his lips together. She really was impossible. Exasperated, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and rummaged for an extra teacup. He poured a steaming cup and stalked over to Dr. Parkman's bench.

"If you're going to stay, at least drink that, for mercy's sake." He set the saucer down on her bench with a sharp click and turned back to his own work.

"What is it about tea, anyway?" came Dr. Parkman's voice, somewhat hoarse from her cold.

"Sorry?" Gilbert turned back to face her.

"Every night, you and your tea. As soon as the others clear out, you've got your kettle going. And Saturdays. I never saw anybody drink so much tea."

Gilbert wrinkled his nose. "Ever been to England?"

"No."

"Well, I don't think you'd find it quite as remarkable if you had. At my last job, the whole lab stopped for regular tea breaks. Here, I go all day without."

"But you aren't English," Dr. Parkman observed.

"No. Canadian," Gilbert answered. "I suppose people there are quite fond of tea as well. Do drink it; it isn't poison."

Dr. Parkman picked up her cup and let the steam warm her face before she took a sip. "So Dr. Wright's lab runs on tea, does it?"

"I suppose so."

"Pity it doesn't run on statistics," she smirked.

Gilbert nodded. "You're right about that. Dr. Wright's a regular old crank about statistics. I have no idea why he is so set against collecting proper data, except that he's not very good at mathematics himself."

Dr. Parkman snorted. "So the whole field suffers for his pride?"

"Yes," Gilbert shrugged. "But perhaps you'll convince him otherwise."

"Probably not," Dr. Parkman replied comfortably.

"Why not?" Gilbert asked, perplexed.

"Well, perhaps if I write up a paper as _Dr. M. Parkman_ ," she said, cracking the knuckle on her left hand. "Or perhaps if you submit the work under your name. Then people would listen. But there's not much of a chance that Dr. Almroth E. Wright, M.D., F.R.S. is going to implement any system devised by a woman, is there?"*

Gilbert felt himself flush from his collar to the tips of his ears. "I . . . well, yes, Dr. Wright does have . . . strong views . . ."

Dr. Parkman was correct, of course. Almroth Wright might be a brilliant bacteriologist, but he was also a virulent misogynist who opposed co-education and women's suffrage, and had an absolute horror of female scientists and doctors.

How well Gilbert remembered his first week at Netley, when he had made the mistake of laughing at Dr. Wright's pronouncement that, "there are no good women, but only women who have lived under the influence of good men." He soon found that Dr. Wright was in deadly earnest. The staff at the British Army Medical School was regularly subjected to lengthy discourses on "woman's disability in the matter of intellect."**

Dr. Wright was vehemently opposed to allowing women to work alongside men. "Epicene conditions would place obstacles in the way of intellectual work," he would say, shaking a fist and explaining that feminists who sought work in male-dominated spheres were generally spinsters for whom "unsatisfied sexuality is an intellectual disability."

Whenever he heard of a woman who worked in a laboratory, Dr. Wright would adopt an air of long-suffering resignation, explaining that "the only possible form of intellectual co-operation is that in which the man plays the game and the woman moves the pawns under his orders . . . and everybody knows that the woman very often marries the man."

Now, standing before Dr. Mary Parkman, Gilbert found himself scrambling for words. "What I mean to say is . . . I . . . that is, _he_ . . ."

Dr. Parkman regarded him without sympathy. "What you mean to say is that you agree with his views?"

"No!" Gilbert nearly shouted. "No. I . . . Dr. Wright is a brilliant doctor, but no, I certainly don't agree with him about . . . many things."

"Such as?"

"Well, statistics, for one. And . . . women's intellectual capabilities. I am a strong proponent of co-education, Dr. Parkman," Gilbert said, wincing at the inadequacy of his own defense.

"Really?" Dr. Parkman asked coolly. "I understood from Dean Hilliard that you are Dr. Wright's hand-picked protégé, are you not?"

"Yes," Gilbert conceded, running a hand through his hair. "But I was only there because of typhoid. Because of the vaccine. I was there to work in the lab. I had no idea about Dr. Wright's other views when I joined his team. And I certainly don't agree with him."

Dr. Parkman pursed her lips. "But you worked with him."

He had. He had dropped everything, quit his job, crossed an ocean. The vaccine had been the only thing that mattered and he had kept his mouth shut and his head down during his time at Netley.

"I . . . how do you even know about him?" Gilbert asked.

"I make it my business to know the field and the people who work in it," Dr. Parkman said, fixing Gilbert with an unsettlingly direct look.

Gilbert found it difficult to weather the combination of her withering gaze and the righteousness of her suspicions. Dr. Wright was awful, he really was. Nevertheless, Gilbert had agreed to work with him — even after he knew who he was — for the sake of a larger cause. It had always seemed like a reasonable tradeoff. Then again, Gilbert had never had to justify it before. It occurred to him that Dr. Parkman might not be the only woman of his acquaintance who would have had mixed feelings about his willingness to compromise.

"I'm not Dr. Wright," was all he managed to say.

"Perhaps not," she replied, though it could not quite be called a concession.

Gilbert swung his arm uncomfortably, then clasped his wrist behind his back to stop the nervous gesture. "Indeed. Well, carry on, Dr. Parkman. I . . . hope you enjoy your tea."

* * *

*F.R.S. indicates that someone is a Fellow of the Royal Society, one of Britain's highest honors for scientists, mathematicians, and engineers. The Royal Society of London was founded in 1663, but did not elect its first female Fellow until 1945. Any Fellow of the Royal Society can rightfully claim the F.R.S. after their name, but insisting upon it is fairly obnoxious.

**These are Dr. Almroth Wright's actual beliefs. These quotations are taken from his book, _The Unexpurgated Case Against Woman Suffrage_ , which was published in 1913. I'm fudging a bit by using these quotations a few years before they were published. Still, I think I'm fairly safe in assuming that Dr. Wright was making many of those same arguments to his staff long before he published them for the whole world to enjoy.


	40. Chapter 7: Statistics and Random Chance

Chapter 7: Statistics and Random Chance

* * *

"Dr. Blythe?"

Gilbert looked up from his microscope. Dr. Parkman was standing before his workbench, dark brown eyes expectant. They were the only two in the lab, as they were every Saturday. Gilbert blinked, adjusting his vision back to normal light.

"Dr. Parkman. What can I do for you?"

She held up a neat file of papers. "I've prepared my proposal. For the data analysis system. When you have a moment, perhaps I could walk you through it? Or I could wait for Monday, if you prefer."

Gilbert rubbed his eyes. "Of course, Dr. Parkman. Now is fine. Shall I put some tea on?"

"If you must . . ."

Gilbert put the kettle on and set to work clearing his desk. A stack of papers was returned to its drawer in the filing cabinet; the latest round of medical journals found a new home on the floor beside his chair. He drew another chair to the opposite side of the desk and offered it to Dr. Parkman. She perched on the edge as Gilbert poured tea for both of them.

Dr. Parkman spread her papers neatly across the desk. There were graphs, tables, and a typewritten report divided into many headings and subheadings.

"I've reviewed all of our data from the past year," Dr. Parkman began, "and read every article out of labs similar to ours. There are two main questions: first, how should we collect data from our experiments?; second, how can we make that data speak to us accurately and efficiently?"

Over the next hour, Dr. Parkman explained her proposed system, which would require taking multiple samples from each patient at pre-determined intervals and analyzing those samples according to an invariable set of evaluations. From there, the data would be subjected to various statistical analyses that Gilbert understood only partially.

"Ideally, we would know as little as possible about the patients. Label the samples with numbers, rather than names," Dr. Parkman explained.

"Why is that important?" Gilbert asked.

"It's the best way to get reliable data. Imagine Dr. Cabot going to the hospital and collecting one blood sample from a patient who appears to be in good health, and another who appears to be doing poorly. When he measures the sedimentation in their samples, he will be predisposed to seeing the former as a success and the latter as a failure, even if the samples themselves aren't so clear."

"I don't think Dr. Cabot would lie about results."

Dr. Parkman pursed her lips. "I don't think so either. It's more subtle than that. There's a human element here and we're all fallible. If the samples were anonymous, we would be forced to evaluate them without leaning toward one outcome or another."

"How would we accomplish that?"

"I'm glad you asked," Dr. Parkman said, turning to another chart.

* * *

It was quite late when Dr. Parkman sat back, having explained her system in exhaustive detail and answering every question Gilbert could throw at her.

Gilbert was impressed. He had felt a mounting sense of excitement as Dr. Parkman presented her work, seeing at once that her system would make it much easier to compare experimental batches and apply more stringent testing to apparent successes. If only they had had something like this at Netley . . .

"Dr. Parkman, this is excellent work," Gilbert said, leaning forward avidly.

"You . . . like it?" Dr. Parkman asked, sounding wary.

"Of course. It's much more rigorous than anything I've seen in other labs. It will be a challenge to implement, but I think it will be worth it."*

"You actually want to use it?"

"Naturally," Gilbert replied, not quite understanding her hesitance. Didn't the work speak for itself? "We'll begin using it at once. You can present it to the others on Monday."

"No."

Gilbert sat back, surprised. "Why not? The whole staff will need to cooperate to make it work."

Dr. Parkman nodded. "They will. Which is why _you_ must present it to them."

"What?"

"Almroth Wright is not the only doctor who would resist an idea just because it is mine."

Gilbert grimaced. "But everyone here knows that this is your work. Surely it wouldn't matter that you presented it to them."

Dr. Parkman raised a black brow. "Have you met Dr. Lowell?"

Gilbert sighed. Perhaps she had a point.

"Alright, Dr. Parkman," he said, reaching for his tea. "Run me through it once more."

* * *

One dismal Sunday, as the gritty slush of late winter melted into rivulets in the gutters, Gilbert rode the electric streetcar down Washington Street. At Christmas, several people had asked him about Boston and he had been embarrassed to discover that he knew little of the city beyond his own circumscribed orbit. He had taken to riding the cars on Sundays just to see where they went.

As the streetcar rattled along, Gilbert became aware that someone was staring at him. He turned slightly in his seat to check. No, he had not imagined it. The blonde woman in the lavender dress was definitely staring at him across the aisle. Was there something familiar about her?

Gilbert tried to study her surreptitiously. Something about her struck a chord in his memory, but he could not quite place her. The freckles, the too-wide mouth, the snub nose . . .

It was not until Gilbert noticed the adolescent girl beside her that he realized who she was. The child was a copy of her mother as Gilbert had once known her, down to the long, fair braids finished with enormous blue bows.

Gilbert whirled in his seat and said, "Charlotta?" at the very same instant she said, "Mr. Blythe?"

Both gaped at one another for a moment, then smiled.

"Charlotta the Fourth! I didn't recognize you!" Gilbert exclaimed.

"I recognized you at once, Mr. Blythe, sir," Charlotta answered. "I just wasn't sure I trusted my eyes, is all."

"I remember now that you moved to Boston. I had forgotten," Gilbert said, more to himself than to Charlotta.

"Indeed, Mr. Blythe, sir. I've been here . . . well, it must be fifteen years now. But I never heard that you had come to Boston."

"I only arrived a few months ago," Gilbert explained. "I'm a doctor now — I work at Harvard Medical School."

"Well fancy that!" Charlotta exclaimed, impressed.

"Do you still keep in touch with the Irvings?" Gilbert asked. "I had heard that Paul lived in New York, and that Miss Lavendar had gone somewhere out west."

"Yes, I hear from Mrs. Irving regular," said Charlotta. "And I saw Paul last year — he was in Boston to do a reading from his new book. You know how he was always writing poetry."

Gilbert nodded. "I remember. And I've seen some of his work. It's very good."

Charlotta grinned toothily at him. "To think I should run into Gilbert Blythe on a streetcar! I've been meaning to write Mrs. Irving and this is just the sort of thing she would love to hear."

"I almost didn't recognize you, Charlotta," Gilbert admitted. "Not until I saw . . . forgive me, this must be your daughter."

"Yes," Charlotta said, beaming at the girl, who had endured this conversation with a look of mortification on her dappled face. "This is my Anne."

"Oh." Gilbert felt as if he had been stabbed. It took a moment to recover himself, but he touched his hat to the girl. "It's very nice to meet you, Miss . . ."

"Hawkins," the girl supplied.

"Miss Hawkins."

"Dr. Blythe?" the smile had gone from Charlotta's face. "You must know how sorry I was to hear about Miss Shirley. I don't know if you remember, but I thought the world of her. And Anne here was born just a few months after I got word by Mrs. Irving."

Gilbert's smile was rather fixed, but he had manners and deployed them.

"Thank you, Charlotta. Or, I should say, Mrs. Hawkins. It's always good to know that she is remembered."

"Paul Irving has a little Anne as well."

"I'm sure he does."

"The next stop is ours, Mother," Anne Hawkins said, a note of relief in her voice.

Gilbert dug in his pocket, finding a pencil stub and a scrap of paper. Hurriedly, he scribbled down his address and thrust the note at Charlotta. "Here. I live over near Copley Square. If you ever need anything, Mrs. Hawkins, don't hesitate to call."

"Thank you, Dr. Blythe, sir. If you ever need to find me, we're in Savin Hill, down in Dorchester. My husband is Tom Hawkins — he's a bricklayer." The car was stopping now; the girl stood. "It was real nice to see you again."

"And you, Mrs. Hawkins. Miss Hawkins."

Gilbert watched them disappear into the crowd. Then he slumped back against the seat, feeling that he had seen quite enough of the city for today.

* * *

*In 1901, Mary's proposal would have been pretty forward-thinking. The first double-blind tests were not performed until 1908, though certain elements had been proposed and used before then. Statistics was also a fairly new field. It would become widely used and taught in the 1910s and 1920s, but it was still a niche branch of mathematics in 1901. The first academic journal of statistics, _Biometrika_ , was founded in 1901. In some ways, the most unrealistic thing in this subplot is Mary having a bunch of statistics textbooks to consult — there weren't many written yet.


	41. Chapter 8: In an Emergency

Chapter 8: In an Emergency

* * *

By the beginning of March, Gilbert was thoroughly exasperated with Dr. Eliot Lowell. What did the man do all day? He was often late, but when he did arrive, he always appeared to be busy looking into a microscope or mixing something in a beaker. Despite the appearance of activity, he never seemed to produce anything but dirty glassware.

At a loss, Gilbert had taken to devising tasks to occupy him. This took a fair amount of time and energy, as Dr. Lowell vacillated between following instructions so strictly that he required explicit guidance at every step and improvising so wildly that he lost sight of the task at hand.

Today, Gilbert had little patience. He had not slept well; a late night with the hatbox meant an edgy headache in the morning.

When it came time to delegate some task to Dr. Lowell, Gilbert found himself grasping for ideas."Well . . . I know Dr. Parkman is hoping to try a nitric acid treatment for the bacteria this week," Gilbert said. "Why don't you go distill some nitric acid?"

If he had looked, Gilbert would have seen Dr. Parkman shoot him a look of incredulity, but he did not.

Grumbling, Dr. Lowell set up a distillation apparatus his workbench to prepare the acid.

"Be sure you use clean glassware," Dr. Parkman cautioned from her own bench. "And watch your temperature."

Lowell scowled at her. "Thank you, _mother_. I assure you that I have the vastly challenging task of distilling nitric acid well in hand."

Gilbert thought he heard Dr. Parkman mutter something to herself, but he didn't catch exactly what. A moment later, she snapped her notebook closed and seized a tray of supplies waiting to be reshelved. Crossing briskly to the supply closet, she shut its door behind her.

Dr. Lowell set his burner going and then stepped into the hall, presumably to answer the call of nature.

Gilbert sighed. He really needed to find a way to get rid of Dr. Lowell. If he couldn't be fired, perhaps Dean Hilliard could be persuaded to promote him to some other position. At some other lab.

Lost in speculation about how the Dean might respond to such a request, Gilbert did not cross the room to check on Dr. Lowell's distilling apparatus. He did not notice that the heat was too high, nor that the glassware was spotted with residue.

Dr. Lowell's mistakes announced themselves with a thunderous boom. The glass flask exploded, sending daggers flying in all directions.

Gilbert and Dr. Appleton, seated across the room from Lowell's workbench, were startled, but unscathed. Dr. Cabot, seated beside Lowell's station, was not so lucky. Several large shards caught him in the arm and chest. Worse, he had been pouring from a liter flask of undiluted carbolic acid at the moment of the explosion. The full contents splashed over his forearms, drenching them. Cabot's mouth formed a tiny O as his skin began to burn.

Several things happened at once. Gilbert leapt to his feet and bounded across the room, catching Dr. Cabot as he slumped from his stool. The supply closet door flew open, revealing a wide-eyed Dr. Parkman. And Dr. Lowell returned, too late.

A lurch of panic hit Gilbert hard in the gut, but there was no time. He propped Cabot in a sitting position against a cupboard and assessed his injuries. Many superficial cuts on his arm, but only one that was concerning. His face was scratched, but his eyes were uninjured. Good. But those burns . . . Gilbert reached into his lab apron for a pair of scissors. Dr. Parkman was beside him, already working to stanch the bleeding from the deep cut above Cabot's wrist.

"Appleton! Go for help!" Gilbert commanded. "Lowell! Get some water!"

"No!" cried Dr. Parkman. "Not water! We need isopropyl alcohol!"

Appleton sprinted for the door and Lowell for the supply closet. Cabot had gone rigid, staring at his burning arms in horror. Gilbert began cutting away Cabot's shirt, pulling off the soaking shreds with his own bare hands.

"Dr. Blythe! Don't touch that!" Even as Dr. Parkman spoke, Gilbert felt the tips of his fingers beginning to tingle. Where was Lowell with that alcohol?

In the next instant, Lowell reappeared carrying a basin of water. He dropped it next to Gilbert and stared, wide-eyed, at the white, bubbling blisters forming on Cabot's forearms.

"Where is the alcohol?" Gilbert asked in utter astonishment.

"You . . . you said water," Lowell stammered.

"Didn't you hear her?" Gilbert shouted. "Alcohol! Isopropyl alcohol!"

Lowell scurried off again, tripping into his own workstation and sending his papers scattering over the floor.

Dr. Parkman muttered under her breath as she worked over Cabot's bleeding arm. ". . . _barely even water-soluble_ . . ."

Gilbert could see several shards of glass embedded in Cabot's flesh, but the worst of it was the gash along his wrist. Blood oozed between Dr. Parkman's fingers as she held the wound together.

Gilbert turned and grabbed a towel from Cabot's workbench. His fingers were beginning to smart now, the skin turning red, then white where he had touched the acid-soaked shirt. He passed the towel under Dr. Parkman's hands, wrapping it tightly around Cabot's wrist, pulling on the ends to apply more even pressure.

Lowell returned, a jug of isopropyl alcohol in hand. He emptied the water basin and began to fill it again, sloshing alcohol over the floor.

"Put your hands in that, Dr. Blythe," Dr. Parkman ordered. "Right now."

Gilbert obeyed. The cessation of pain was nearly immediate.

"Get me another towel," Dr. Parkman barked at Lowell. He jumped and offered her the towel from his own workbench.

Dr. Parkman soaked the towel in alcohol and slopped it over Appleton's arm. He had begun to tremble now, though with pain or fear, Gilbert could not tell.

"You're going to be fine, Dr. Cabot," Gilbert assured him. "Dr. Parkman is swabbing the acid off now. Sit up a bit? Let her get your shoulder. There. Alcohol will take it right off and stop the burn. There is some blistering, but it doesn't seem too deep."

"It . . . hurts . . ." Cabot said through chattering teeth.

"That's good," Gilbert replied. "Pain means it's only first or second degree burns. You're going to be fine."

"My . . . my wrist . . ."

"Dr. Appleton's gone for help. You're wrapped up good and tight." Gilbert forced a smile. "Perhaps Prof. Maxwell will drag you into the lecture hall and let the first-years practice their sutures on you."

Cabot was still shaking.

Dr. Parkman caught Gilbert's eye. "Could you find a blanket or a coat or something? He's going into shock."

Gilbert retrieved his own coat from its peg by the door. He wrapped it around Cabot's shoulders and looked to Dr. Parkman.

"Anything else?"

Before she could answer, Appleton burst through the door, followed by half a dozen people. There was a general hubbub as several students from the histology lab lifted Cabot onto a stretcher.

"Bring him straight to Massachusetts General Hospital," Gilbert ordered. "I'll follow along as soon as I can."

Appleton and the stretcher-bearers hurried from the room with Lowell on their heels. Their footsteps retreated down the hall, leaving Gilbert and Dr. Parkman sitting on the floor of the lab, surrounded by debris.

Dr. Parkman slumped against the cupboard and closed her eyes. For a moment, Gilbert thought that she might have fainted, but when he leaned forward to check her, she opened clear, brown eyes that betrayed no trace of frailty.

Gilbert rocked back on his heels and let out his breath in a huff. "Dr. Parkman. Thank you."

Dr. Parkman did not smile. "How are your hands?"

"They're fine." Gilbert inspected his fingers. "No blisters, even."

Dr. Parkman struggled to her feet and pulled off her apron with short, irritable movements. Gilbert was surprised to see two crimson spots rise in her cheeks. Was she . . . angry?

"Dr. Parkman?" he asked cautiously.

Yes, it was definitely anger flashing in her eye. "There should be an alcohol bath available at all times!" she snarled. "Basic safety measures! We shouldn't have to rely on Dr. Lowell's idiotic attempts to render assistance!"

Gilbert was startled, but Dr. Parkman wasn't finished.

"What would have happened if you had spilled carbolic acid while you were here alone in here?" she asked, her voice a harsh near-whisper. "In an emergency, could you have gone all the way to the supply closet and hunted out the the alcohol for yourself? Would you even have remembered that water wouldn't help much?"

"No, probably not," Gilbert said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "You're right, Dr. Parkman. That's a good idea."

She relaxed slightly, her shoulders falling. She suddenly looked as small as she was.

Gilbert exhaled and felt his own heartrate begin to slow. "So, isopropyl alcohol?"

"Water would have helped a little," Dr. Parkman replied with a grudging shrug. "If you had gallons and gallons of it."

"I'll try to remember that."

Dr. Parkman's breathing had slowed. She didn't look angry now, only tired. "You kept him calm," she said, opening and closing her left hand. "Have you treated a lot of trauma patients?"

Gilbert snorted. "No."

"Well you did fine," Dr. Parkman said dully, the ebb of adrenaline seeming to take all her usual severity with it.

"Why don't you go home?" Gilbert suggested. "Get some rest."

Dr. Parkman looked around at the chaos of the lab. Cabot's shredded shirt was a heap of acid-damp rags. Most of Lowell's papers had fallen into a puddle of alcohol. Broken glass and streaks of blood speckled the floor. She raised her spattered hands, indicating the work yet to do.

"I'll clean this up," Gilbert said. "You go."

"You should get to the hospital."

"He's in good hands. I'll do this first."

Dr. Parkman said nothing. She merely bent to the floor and began picking up fragments of glass.

Gilbert knelt beside her and did the same.


	42. Chapter 9: Meet the O'Connors

Chapter 9: Meet the O'Connors

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Gilbert made several changes at the lab. Following Dr. Parkman's suggestion, he installed a washstand by his desk, complete with basin, towels, gloves, scissors, and a jug of isopropyl alcohol. He wrote up a sign in neat, clear letters reminding everyone that carbolic acid could be cleaned with alcohol and that nitric acid should be absorbed with towels, not splashed with water. He even suggested that staff members might consider wearing motorists' goggles to guard their eyes when they worked with potentially explosive materials, though only Dr. Parkman took him up on it. It was rather startling to find her blinking owlishly at him from behind the oversized frames from time to time, but at least her eyes were safe.

When Dr. Cabot returned to the lab in April, healthy and whole, Gilbert felt that things were going rather well, for once.

* * *

Late one spring evening, a soft knock at the laboratory door made Gilbert look up from the report he was drafting.

An older man with a broad, pleasant face opened the door a crack and peered in anxiously. Behind him, Gilbert glimpsed a short, round woman of similar age in a green felt hat. Both were dressed neatly but plainly, with sturdy shoes and coats of sensible wool.

"Hello?" the man called.

Gilbert rose to greet them, but was intercepted by Dr. Parkman, who stepped nimbly around her work bench and cut in front of him.

"There you are!" beamed the man, evidently delighted to see Dr. Parkman.

Gilbert was surprised to see Dr. Parkman gathered, unresisting, into a hearty hug. When the pair broke apart, the woman also embraced Dr. Parkman, giving her a fond peck on the cheek. While she was thus engaged, the man noticed Gilbert, standing rather dazedly beside his desk.

"Hello!" the man said cheerfully. "We're Mary's parents."

Gilbert brightened and extended his hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Parkman."

An awkward silence ensued. Gilbert's warm smile froze on his lips. Dr. Parkman's face tensed, but she cleared her throat and looked Gilbert in the eye.

"O'Connor, actually. Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor. And this is Dr. Blythe."

Gilbert managed only a breathless "Oh . . ." before Dr. Parkman's father seized his outstretched hand and pumped it enthusiastically.

"Francis O'Connor, at your service. And this is my wife, Rose. Parkman is Mary's married name, of course. So you're the Dr. Blythe we hear so much about. Mary tells us that you do excellent work, excellent work, sir. We're so pleased to meet you!"

"The pleasure is mine," Gilbert said with a little bow. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dr. Parkman's jaw working as she struggled to control a rising temper.

"Dr. Blythe? Won't you join us for supper?" asked Mrs. O'Connor. "Today is Mary's birthday, you see, and we do like to have a little celebration for her. She works so hard."

"Mother!"

Gilbert turned dancing eyes to his colleague. "A birthday? I had no idea. Happy birthday, Dr. Parkman."

"Thank you, Dr. Blythe," she grumbled, not raising her eyes to meet his smug smile.

"She's 34 today," added Mrs. O'Connor, helpfully.

" _Mother!_ "

Gilbert was having difficulty containing the laughter bubbling up through his chest. If he did not make his escape soon, he would not be able to resist. "Thank you for your kind invitation, Mrs. O'Connor. Alas, I have several reports to write this evening, so I will be unable accompany you. I wish you many happy returns of the day, Dr. Parkman."

"Yes, well, it's time for us to go," said Dr. Parkman, steering her parents toward the door. Gilbert bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling more than he already was. He had never seen her so flustered before.

"Goodbye, Dr. Blythe!" called Mr. O'Connor as he was hustled into the hallway.

As their steps retreated, Gilbert overheard furious whispers, ". . . _so embarrassing_ . . . _of all the_ . . . _have to tell_ . . ."

He allowed himself a full smile and a chuckle. He had liked the look of Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor, with their simple clothes and friendly manners. Hardly the paragons of proper society he was used to meeting whenever his Boston colleagues had occasion to introduce him to their families. This pair might have been right at home in Avonlea.

Although . . . O'Connor? So Dr. Parkman was Irish, was she? Gilbert smiled, thinking of what Mrs. Harmon Andrews might have to say if she knew that an Irish family reminded him of home.

And . . . Dr. Parkman was married? Or had been, Gilbert checked himself. She wore no wedding ring; she celebrated her birthday with her parents. He had just assumed that the title of "Dr." overlaid a "Miss" rather than a "Mrs." After all, even those medical schools that accepted female students generally did not admit married women. Perhaps she had gone to medical school first? Could she have kept a marriage secret while she studied? Or maybe . . .

* * *

 _17 April 1901_

 _Dear Gilbert,_

 _I am writing to tell you that I am not dead yet. I hope you will be as glad to hear it as I am to tell it._

 _Spring is here and all is well in Avonlea. Likely your mother and Diana keep you up to date on all the gossip, so I will not bother with that. I will only say that everyone is healthy and thriving and there aren't any quarrels in the family that seem likely to last more than a week (at the present time)._

 _Young Fred and Jack Wright have been stopping by lately to help with the mucking and some of the other chores. You might tell Diana it isn't necessary — I get by just fine on my own. I've told her so myself, but it seems to have done little good. I doubt she'll listen to you either, but you might at least try._

 _I have been trying for weeks to speak to your mother about the little chat we had over Christmas, but she is a most evasive woman. I finally asked her straight out how she always knows when I am about to say something she might find disagreeable. She says that I have a physical tell that gives me away, but she will not tell me what it is, so I cannot conceal it. It is very nice to be known so well by somebody, but it is not always entirely comfortable._

 _I hope that all is well with you in Boston. Your mother asks that you thank your colleague Dr. Parkman for his suggestions about making your lab safer. She was horrified by your letter about that accident. Perhaps you could refrain from writing quite so vividly? I tried to skip over some of the details when I was reading the letter to her, but she is somewhat more agile than I am, and had it out of my hand the instant she suspected I was leaving bits out._

 _We miss you always and hope that you may have a chance to visit sometime this summer. If not, we will certainly see you at Christmas. I fully intend to live to see 1902, so rest easy on that account._

 _Your loving father,_

 _John Blythe_


	43. Chapter 10: Dressing Down

Chapter 10: Dressing Down

* * *

Several weeks later, Dr. Eliot Lowell celebrated the announcement of his engagement to a Miss Angelica Endicott. Despite his incessant discussion of the subject, no one in the lab learned very much about the lady in question, other than that her father was extremely rich and her uncles very well-connected in politics. Lowell seemed exceptionally pleased with himself.

"Won't you come raise a glass with us, Dr. Blythe?" Dr. Lowell asked as he and Drs. Cabot and Appleton packed up their workstations.

"No, you go along," Gilbert said, glad to have an excuse to dismiss them early.

Half an hour later, Gilbert took his copper kettle off the boil and set out two teacups. He chortled at the idea of going drinking with Lowell and the others. Certainly not. True, he had once discovered a friend in Edgar Wilson over an ill-advised glass, but he doubted a recurrence in this case.

When Dr. Parkman reached a convenient stopping place in her work, she rose from her bench and took her now-accustomed seat on the opposite side of Gilbert's desk.

"You don't drink anything but tea, Dr. Blythe?" she asked.

"Oh, I've been known to have a glass of wine with dinner," he replied. "But even that would be positively scandalous where I'm from."

"Where's that?"

"A little village called Avonlea on Prince Edward Island. The temperance ladies were quite fearsome, I assure you."

"So you're not a big city doctor?" Dr. Parkman pressed with frank curiosity. "I had understood that you were an eminent scholar in Kingsport before your time in Dr. Wright's lab."

Gilbert flushed slightly. "Well, I did teach at Redmond. But I only had the chance to go to medical school because I won a scholarship while I was at college. I might have worked my way through, but . . ."

He trailed off, burying his nose in his teacup. That history was treacherous ground, best left untraveled at the moment.

Dr. Parkman looked at Gilbert with undisguised interest. She opened her mouth, shut it again, then reconsidered.

"They were all terribly cross, you know. When you were hired."

"Who?" Gilbert asked, fearing he had missed an antecedent.

"Lowell and the rest. They thought that one of them should have been promoted. They were quite furious with Dean Hilliard." She smirked. " _Not even a Harvard man_!"

Gilbert chuckled. He had seen Dr. Parkman focused and he had seen her angry, but he had never seen her playful. The curve of her mock sneer and tilt of her head evoked the priggish Dr. John Appleton with such specificity that Gilbert knew for certain that she was quoting directly.

"Ah, well. They're young yet," Gilbert smiled.

"Do you think they'll grow out of it?" Dr. Parkman raised one pert eyebrow in challenge, making her own views on the matter perfectly clear.

"Perhaps not, Dr. Parkman. Perhaps not." Gilbert sipped his tea and looked thoughtfully around the lab. "It is nice and quiet here without them around. I feel that I get much better work done after they've gone home."

Dr. Parkman nodded. "I've always found that to be the case." She hesitated again, clearly wanting to say more, but thinking it through before committing. "I was . . . not exactly pleased to find that you worked nights and Saturdays as well," she said at last. "I've been here nearly three years and that has usually been my time to get real work done without being harassed."

"Three years?" Gilbert asked, surprised. "I was under the impression that Dr. Lowell had seniority here."

"I'm sure he labors under the same delusion."

Gilbert regarded her. "I hope that you have not found me troublesome, Dr. Parkman."

She retuned a frank look. "No. I expected to, but no."

"I'm gratified to find that I am not a distraction."

Dr. Parkman did not look away. "No. You allow me to do my job, and I appreciate that. You give my work a fair hearing. You listen to my ideas. You are . . . not Dr. Wright."

"No."

"I owe you an apology," Dr. Parkman said. "I should have judged you on your own merit from the first."

Gilbert might have been surprised by the baldness of such a declaration. But when had Dr. Parkman ever minced words?

"You needn't apologize," Gilbert replied. "I don't blame you for being on your guard in this place."

Dr. Parkman nodded. "It has often been necessary. In the past, I have found solitude to be the best protection."

Gilbert sipped his tea. "I often prefer to work alone as well. Sometimes I come in on Sundays, knowing it's the only time the lab will be completely empty."

"You work on Sundays?" she asked, her interest sharpened.

Gilbert shrugged. "Not every Sunday, but when I'm working through something difficult, yes."

"Don't you need a day of rest?"

"I'll rest when typhoid fever is something people only read about in old novels."

Dr. Parkman nodded in agreement. "Just so, Dr. Blythe, just so."

"How do you spend your Sundays, Dr. Parkman?" he asked, only realizing after he said it how presumptuous it sounded.

She pursed her lips. "I go to church, Dr. Blythe."

"Catholic?"

Gilbert was surprised to see a reluctant smile spread across her face.

"In a manner of speaking," she replied.

He cocked his head and squinted, inviting her to explain.

"Yes, I am a Catholic. Or, at least, I was raised in the Church. I find that I don't generally have much use for priests or their theology. I prefer to pray with my hands."

"Isn't that the usual way?"

Dr. Parkman laughed. Not the begrudging chuckle Gilbert had heard once or twice before, but a genuine, merry laugh. It transformed her, allowing him to glimpse the girl she must once have been.

"A palpable hit, Dr. Blythe. Indeed. But that's not what I meant. I go to Church to use my hands in the way they were meant to be used, not to engage in contemplation."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"A clinic," she said, the slow, proud smile illuminating her face. "Monsignor McQuaid at St. James the Greater allows me to run a free clinic in the church basement on Sundays.* People come for the Mass and then line up to have me inspect their bruises and sore throats."

Gilbert found himself smiling enthusiastically.

"Dr. Parkman, that's wonderful! It sounds like a lot of work, though, for your day off."

She dismissed this with a wave of the hand. "It's rarely any trouble. Mostly sniffles and sprains. I see a fair number of kitchen burns and mysterious rashes. If anything looks truly serious, I refer them to the charity hospital. Most of the work is just setting people's minds at ease."

Gilbert looked at her with growing admiration. "That is important work, Dr. Parkman. Truly."

"It isn't as prestigious as working for Harvard Medical School, but . . ."

Gilbert cut her off. "No, Dr. Parkman. It's just as important. To work in a community, to care for people and fight disease on the ground . . . in truth, I became a doctor hoping that I would have a general practice. The work I do now is meaningful, but in a different way. Community work is essential."

"Yes," she agreed. "It is. The people of St. James can't afford to call a doctor for the minor hurts of everyday life. If someone is dangerously ill, the family can usually scrape together enough to call one, but I'm not sure they really get their money's worth. There just aren't effective treatments for many of their sicknesses. Good hygiene is often the best defense, and I do what I can to promote it. I hand out a fair amount of soap and small-toothed combs."

"Where do you get your supplies?"

She looked sheepish. "Well, as you know, I draw a salary from the lab . . ."

"Dr. Parkman! You don't mean that you buy supplies with your own money?"

She tossed her head. "Why not? I have little enough to spend it on. I'm in the lab all day, every day, and at the clinic when I'm not."

Gilbert leaned forward avidly. "You must let me accompany you to your clinic this Sunday. And take a donation in support of your cause."

"Must I? Why?"

Gilbert was slightly taken aback that she did not accept his offer out of hand, and made a faltering attempt to recover. "Because . . . well . . . because it's a worthy enterprise . . . and . . . I . . . you shouldn't have to spend your own money . . ."

Dr. Parkman allowed him to founder, something like mischief twinkling in her deep brown eyes.

Gilbert gave up. "I'd like to help," he said simply.

She looked him over slowly, squinting suspiciously. "You really want to come to my clinic?"

"I do! I haven't seen patients other than our vaccine subjects since medical school, but I think I can dust off the old bedside manner."

Dr. Parkman paused, considering. "You may accompany me . . ." she said cautiously, "on one condition."

"What condition?"

"You'll need to dress down."

Again, Gilbert found himself scrambling to keep up with the bewildering swerve of her train of thought. "I'm sorry?"

"The St. James clinic isn't one of your fundraisers or society parties," Dr. Parkman said. "The people there are poor. Immigrants. Any experience they have with men in sharp suits tends to involve unpleasant interactions with banks and lawyers."

Gilbert was torn between amusement and outrage. "One of _my_ parties?"

"I've seen you at Harvard receptions. Charming donors and their glittering ladies. And even here, you wear snappy waistcoats under your lab apron."

"Why Dr. Parkman, I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted."

"You're at your ease among the rich," she said in a tone that brooked no contradiction.

Gilbert grimaced. "I've had a lot of practice. But I'll have you know that I am a simple country boy, born and raised."

"Well, make an effort to look it. No mother is going to hand you a sick child if you look like the sort of man who would run her over in the street with his carriage."

"Shall I have my overalls pressed for the occasion?"

Dr. Parkman glowered. "You should strive to look neat and presentable and approachable."

" _Approachable_?" Gilbert asked, too polite to add that this was not a word he would have used to describe Dr. Parkman.

"Yes. St. James is not the place to look like a fashion plate."

"A fashion plate!"

She looked him up and down again. "No," she said, more to herself than to him, "I guess you don't even see it."

"See what?"

"You are a man of effortless grace, Dr. Blythe." It was a bald statement, not a compliment. If it had been said with emotion, he might have blushed. Instead, she delivered her pronouncement with the detachment of a seasoned scientist's eye for keen assessment.

There was nothing Gilbert could do but laugh. He threw up his hands and let out a hearty peal of mirth.

"I assure you, Dr. Parkman, that I will make the necessary effort in this case. What time shall I pick you up?"

"Pick me up?"

"To . . . well . . . escort you to St. James," he faltered.

She seemed to be having difficulty deciding whether to frown or laugh. "Are you under the impression that I am in need of an escort? To my own clinic?"

Gilbert did blush then. There was some invisible line between treating Dr. Parkman as a colleague and treating her as lady, and he wasn't quite sure how to navigate it.

"I only meant that perhaps I might assist you in transporting some of your supplies," he said, recovering as best he could.

"Indeed. Well, in that case, you may meet me at the southwest entrance to the Public Garden at eight o'clock Sunday morning." She smirked. "I'll be sure to have a crate ready for you."

"It will be my pleasure, Dr. Parkman."

* * *

*Monsignor William P. McQuaid was the pastor of St. James the Greater in Boston from 1887 until 1913.


	44. Chapter 11: St James the Greater

Chapter 11: St. James the Greater

* * *

At five minutes before eight o'clock on Sunday morning, Gilbert stood at the southwest entrance of the Public Garden, balancing nervously on the balls of his feet. As instructed, he had "dressed down," donning an old brown suit that had been a staple of his teaching wardrobe at Redmond. It was only slightly threadbare, he noted, examining the elbows.

Despite his comfortable attire, Gilbert was on edge. His enthusiasm for Dr. Parkman's clinic had been genuine, but he had invited himself along before considering what he was saying. Of course community work was important. But actually seeing patients? What had he been thinking?

He reached a hand into his coat pocket, ran his fingers over the stethoscope there. After all this time, he was used to thinking of it as a memento, not an instrument.

It was a lovely spring morning, graced with a slight breeze off the unseen harbor. The Public Garden was still quiet at this hour, but ducks and swans paddled to and fro, searching out insects as they waited for the day to bring crowds of children and their offerings of stale bread. An elderly couple strolled past, arm in arm; a young father pulled his little son past the entrance; a pretty young woman wearing a cornflower blue dress and carrying a black bag walked purposefully toward the gate.

"Dr. Blythe?"

Gilbert looked down at the woman, a pleasant expression fastened over his features. "Good morning . . ."

A jolt ran through him, so strong and sudden that he jumped backward. His heart thundered with the sudden rush of adrenaline occasioned by his surprise, which was genuine, if not exactly tactful.

". . . Dr. Parkman?"

She was looking at him quizzically, with a certain sparkle in her deep brown eyes that betrayed her private amusement.

Gilbert gulped. "Dr. Parkman. Forgive me. I . . . I didn't recognize you."

"Well, that's plain enough," she answered wryly.

Perhaps he deserved her scorn, Gilbert reflected. _But honestly_. He had never seen Dr. Parkman in anything but a smart black suit, invariable as the ticking of a clock. Who knew that she even owned a dress so soft and blue, with bits of lace at collar and cuff? Her dark hair, always slicked back and pinned down with ruthless efficiency, was arranged over her brow in undulating waves, with the bulk of it wrapped in a thick braid over the crown and topped with a modish little straw hat.

"I . . ." Gilbert could think of nothing to cover his confusion. He cursed himself roundly for his stupidity and for the flush he felt spreading across his face. "I . . . I was under the impression that fashion plates were unwelcome at this particular venue."

Dr. Parkman smirked at him. "One must always dress for the occasion, Dr. Blythe. St. James is not Harvard, and you'd do well to remember that."

She had begun to walk away down Boylston Street before he had recovered. Gilbert was forced to jog a few steps to catch up, feeling utterly discomposed.

"I have a crate for you, as promised," Dr. Parkman was saying. "I left it on the stoop of my boarding house. It's just across the street here."

She led him across Boylston Street to a tidy row house and indicated a wooden box waiting to be carried to St. James the Greater. Gilbert hoisted it easily and followed Dr. Parkman through the Boston streets, past hotels and restaurants and theaters sleeping off last night's fun. She made no effort to walk beside him, weaving past obstacles and oncoming pedestrians without leaving room for them to walk abreast. By the time they turned into Harrison Street, Gilbert was feeling more than a little annoyed by her indifference.

"Here we are!" Dr. Parkman announced, speaking to him at last.

Gilbert looked up at the great square facade of St. James. It reminded him oddly of the medical students' dormitory at Redmond, with its red brick and pale stone arches. Admittedly, there had been no eight-foot statues of Christ and his apostles nestled in alcoves over doors at Redmond, but both buildings shared a similarly boxy interpretation of gothic architecture. Rows of colorful windows in a variety of circles, half circles, and rectangles made St. James look like the innards of a kaleidoscope, even from the outside. The great wooden doors were open, ready to welcome people to Mass.

Gilbert mounted the stairs, trying to remember whether he had ever actually entered a Catholic church before. There had been the church in Kingsport where Phil and Jo had been married — that had been grand enough, but not Catholic. And somewhere at the bottom of the green-and-white hatbox there was a little beaded rosary in a drawstring bag. Gilbert had never really known what to do with it. Standing in the antechamber of St. James, he craned his neck to peer down the nave at the rows of dark pews and the enormous crucifix over the altar.

"This way, Dr. Blythe," called Dr. Parkman, disappearing down a staircase at the end of the foyer.

Gilbert followed her into the church basement. A small lobby at the base of the staircase mirrored the antechamber above and a pair of large doors opened into a wide hall. Though it was a basement, a generous row of windows set high in the wall let in natural light from street level. A stage at the far end could be used for performances or lectures. Someone had set up several rows of folding chairs across the span and a long, sturdy-looking table by the stage.

"I only have one examination table," Dr. Parkman apologized. "There are some screens, though. I usually make a little room with them so that people feel more comfortable. We can set one up for you and see if there isn't a card table around here somewhere."

Gilbert set down his crate and moved to help Dr. Parkman accomplish these arrangements.

"Do you generally set up by yourself?" he asked as he hoisted one end of a heavy screen.

"Yes," Dr. Parkman answered. "Monsignor McQuaid sends the altar boys down to set up the chairs, but they'll be preparing for Mass now. Some of the parishioners stay behind to help take everything down, but I do the rest myself."

She adjusted the position of the screen by a centimeter.

"There. That's right. Now, have you brought any of your own instruments?"

Embarrassed, Gilbert reached into his pocket. "As I said, I haven't really seen patients since medical school. I only have my stethoscope."

Dr. Parker nodded briskly. "Never fear. I have an extra reflex hammer and thermometer in my bag, and the crate you carried is full of bandaging supplies and ointments. Go find another table, would you?"

Gilbert did as he was told, bristling slightly at being ordered about. But, he reflected, this was Dr. Parkman's clinic and he was here to support her, not to tend his own ego. He found a small folding table somewhere in the wings of the stage and set it up in the makeshift examining room. Dr. Parker unpacked the crate. Piles of cotton bandages, bottles of iodine, one enormous cake of soap and many little ones to give away.

"There are basins and buckets in the supply closet off the lobby," Dr. Parkman said. "Fetch some water?"

For the next half hour, Gilbert hauled and fetched and did whatever Dr. Parkman asked him to do. He had a vexing suspicion that she was enjoying herself.

At nine o'clock, the organ in the sanctuary above blared to life. Soon, Latin prayers and chanting filtered down the hall, muffled but fascinating.

Dr. Parkman turned to find that Gilbert had gone still, listening.

"Have you never heard a Mass before?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "I feel as though I shouldn't, though. It seems terribly wicked and forbidden."

Dr. Parkman snorted. "Go upstairs and watch, then. I can finish up here."

Gilbert was on the point of refusing, but the truth was that he was curious. When might he get another chance to observe a Catholic Mass?

 _Besides, I could use whatever help I can get._

* * *

Inwardly, Gilbert berated himself for failing to anticipate the number of red-headed women and children who might crowd the basement of an Irish church on a Sunday morning. In addition to that nasty little shock, he felt an unmistakeable flutter of nerves when his first patient, a teenage boy with a sore throat, approached his table. It wasn't panic — not quite — but it wasn't comfortable either.

 _Just breathe, Blythe._

In truth, Gilbert weathered the morning better than he could have expected. He was busy every second, changing the dressing on a badly skinned shin, advising a very young husband to make sure his pregnant bride got plenty of rest, and examining half a dozen tonsils. He laughed merrily at a blonde boy's whooping joy at having his wrist released from its plaster cast after eight interminable weeks.

Gilbert found that his basic clinical skills were indeed rusty. He fumbled with the bandage for an arthritic elbow, wrapping and re-wrapping, now too loose, now too tight. The elderly patient clucked her tongue at his incompetence; Gilbert tried to cover his difficulty with an extra-charming smile. Still, he had to relinquish only one of his patients to Dr. Parkman.

"Mrs. Riordan!" Dr. Parkman exclaimed when she saw the long gash on a middle-aged woman's thumb. "When did this happen?"

"Just this morning, Dr. Mary," Mrs. Riordan replied, unconcerned.

"And you sat through the whole Mass bleeding into a towel? Why didn't you come down straight away to be stitched up?"

"It weren't nothing," said Mrs. Riordan, acquiescing to Dr. Parkman's ministrations.

Gilbert helped by cleaning the wound while Dr. Parkman readied her suture kit, then held Mrs. Riordan's other hand during the stitching. She went very white around the lips, but managed to return a tremulous reflection of Gilbert's encouraging smile.

There was only one sticky moment that morning, when an anxious mother placed a drowsy infant in his arms. At sight of the baby's red curls, Gilbert said his only conventional prayer of the day: _Lord, give me strength_. With exquisite gentleness, he undid the wrappings to examine a simple rash. Nothing a little calendula ointment wouldn't clear up. The mother's eyes softened in relief, grateful for the handsome doctor's reassurance. She reached for her baby, but Gilbert did not offer it back. He gazed at the tiny face for a moment longer than was polite, resisting the impulse to kiss its silky head.

"You have a beautiful child," he said, a bit thickly, as he handed the bundle back to the mother.

* * *

"You did well, Dr. Blythe," Dr. Parkman commented as she pinned her hat.

"You seem surprised."

Dr. Parkman clicked her black bag shut. "It is not easy to get patients to trust you. Even doctors with years of experience struggle with that."

"Well, I'm naturally charming," Gilbert replied with a straight face.

Dr. Parkman squinted skeptically but made no reply.

"You certainly seem to do fine," Gilbert continued. "I didn't realize that you could suture like that. You were very quick and neat. I think Mrs. Riordan hardly felt it."

"I've been running this clinic since I graduated medical school," Dr. Parkman said. "Three years. So I've kept in practice."

"That would make you . . . class of 1898?"

"Yes."

"Did you attend Harvard?" Gilbert asked absentmindedly, absorbing this new bit of information into his understanding of Dr. Parkman's history.

Dr. Parkman huffed. "Surely you have noticed that Harvard does not admit female medical students, Dr. Blythe."

"Oh . . . yes . . . I suppose . . . it must have slipped my mind."

"I graduated from the Boston University School of Medicine," Dr. Parkman informed him, "which was originally founded as a medical school for women, but began admitting male students about thirty years ago."

"Ah. I'm glad to hear that they came to see the benefits of co-education."

"Yes. It was still a struggle — the local hospitals wouldn't let female students attend clinics until a few years before I was admitted. But by the time I enrolled, it was the best medical education anywhere. Some of the women a few classes ahead of me at BU applied to Harvard, just to make a point, but it was no use."*

"But Harvard hired you for the typhoid lab?"

Dr. Parkman gave him a tight smile. "I am an _excellent_ chemist, Dr. Blythe. Even Harvard could see that."

"Of course," Gilbert said hurriedly. "I mean, yes, you are. I'm glad they hired you. You could probably run the lab as well as I can."

"Yes, I could," she said, a certain glint of challenge sparking in her brown eyes.

Gilbert felt himself on shaky ground. Desperate to find something conciliatory to say, the only thing that came to mind was the truth.

"I know you could," he said. "And you do wonderful work with this clinic, Dr. Parkman. Thank you for allowing me to accompany you today. Truly. I don't know how long it's been since I've had such an enjoyable morning."

Dr. Parkman stood down, her shoulders relaxing. "I will admit that I was skeptical, but you acquitted yourself admirably." Then, hesitating, "Would you like to come back next week?"

"If I'm invited," Gilbert replied, beaming.

Dr. Parkman nodded once, hoisted her bag, and walked out the door without a word.

* * *

*Boston University School of Medicine was founded in 1848 as the New England Female Medical College, one of the first institutions in the world dedicated to educating female doctors. In 1873, the NEFMC merged with Boston University and became Boston University School of Medicine, a co-educational institution. Although most Boston hospitals prohibited women from participating in clinics or observing surgeries, BU fought for all its students to be included, and female students were granted access to Boston City Hospital in 1887. If Mary graduated in 1898, she would have received one of the best medical educations available to women anywhere in the world at that time.

Several women, including Edith Varney-Johnson (BU Medical Class of 1895), applied for admission to Harvard Medical School in the 1880s and 1890s, but were turned away. Harvard Medical School hired its first female research scientist, Ida Henrietta Hyde, in 1896 (Department of Physiology), but did not admit female students until 1945.


	45. Chapter 12: Many Ways to Say Red

Chapter 12: Many Ways to Say Red

* * *

Gilbert stood in the doorway, knocking hesitantly.

"Is that you, Gilbert? Come in!" called Miss Stacy. "Is everything alright? All the others have gone home."

Gilbert approached the desk at the front of the schoolroom and stood beside it. "Miss Stacy, I was wondering whether I might talk to you about . . . poetry."

"Ah," Miss Stacy replied, putting down her pen. "Been reading my comments on your English paper, have you?"

"Yes," Gilbert said dejectedly. "I don't really understand what I'm doing wrong."

"Come sit," said Miss Stacy, smiling kindly.

Gilbert dragged a stool toward the desk and sat heavily.

"You're not doing anything wrong," Miss Stacy began. "You have a good grasp of the overall narrative of the poem and you do a fine job of identifying elements like meter, rhythm, and rhyme scheme."

"But that's not enough."

Miss Stacy shook her head. "It's enough for decent marks, Gilbert. But it's not enough to truly understand a poem."

"What else is there?" Gilbert asked. "What . . . what does Anne do?"

"Have you tried asking her?" Miss Stacy asked, betraying nary a hint of smile.

Gilbert exhaled. "You know she won't talk to me."

"Not even about poetry?"

"Not about anything."

Miss Stacy felt a sincere pang of sympathy for the miserable boy before her. She loved all her students and would have protested that she did not play favorites, but, if pressed, she would have had trouble deciding which of this star-crossed pair she loved better.

"Anne can see what isn't on the page," Miss Stacy said in gentle tones.

Gilbert wrinkled his nose. "How can anyone see what isn't there?"

"With an imagination, of course!" Miss Stacy replied, crinkling merry eyes at him. "See here, Gilbert. Every poem is a jewel box, each word carefully selected not just for its syllables and its sound, but for its associations. And for every word, the poet has rejected a dozen others. If you can see the word the poet chose, you can also see the words that aren't there."

Gilbert was frowning.

"Let me give you an example," Miss Stacy continued. "What color would you say this is?" She touched the end of a ribbon protruding from one of the books on her desk.

"It's red," Gilbert replied dully.

"Is it?" Miss Stacy asked. "Are you sure it isn't crimson? Or cherry? There are so many ways to say _red_. And they all have different associations. Different memories attached to them. If I said to you, 'take this _crimson_ ribbon,' what other words spring to your mind?"

"Blood," said Gilbert, who knew more than enough ways to say _red_. "Something deep or rich, but also maybe gory or messy."

Miss Stacy nodded emphatically. "Exactly. But if I said _cherry_ instead . . ."

"That's bright red, too, but more in a friendly sort of way," Gilbert replied. "Cheerful or shiny or ripe."

"Now you are starting to see," Miss Stacy smiled. "Both _crimson_ and _cherry_ are two syllables and they both mean _red_. Whichever the poet chooses will change the whole tone and meaning of a line. A crimson ribbon and a cherry ribbon are two very different ribbons. And they're both a world away from green."

"Do poets really choose their words so carefully?" Gilbert wondered. "Does every word really mean so much?"

"If the poet is a good one, yes," Miss Stacy explained. "You have to pay attention to the whole cloud of meanings. An apple is an apple, but it is also the fruit of Eden. And not just the words! The structure is important, too. Why are there 33 stanzas instead of 32? How does the title relate to major themes in the piece? What words or symbols appear again and again?"

"So that's the secret? Pay attention to what isn't there, as well as what is?"

"That's quite a lot, Gilbert," Miss Stacy smiled. "There are layers upon layers. Subtle references or implications. Quotations. And beyond that, what are the resonances? Many times, lines have double meanings, and the plot that is easiest to see is only a reflection of another story below the surface."

"Anne sees all that?"

Miss Stacy laughed. "Perhaps not all of it. But yes."

"I'm not sure I can read that way," Gilbert said, clearly skeptical.

"It's perfectly fine to read for plot," Miss Stacy assured him. "But someday you might find that there's a bit more there if you care to dig for it. And as far as your marks go, let's make a plan. In your next English paper, try to find one example — just one — of a place where word choice or structure means more than it appears to mean at first. You can grow from there."

Gilbert sat back, his brow unfurrowed. "I think I could do that," he agreed.

"You've already done the most important thing," Miss Stacy said with a twinkle in her eye.

"What's that?"

"Asked for help. Tried to learn something new. Practiced something you want to get better at. Remember, Gilbert: it's wonderful to know how to do something, but it's much more important to know how to learn new things. If you know how to learn, you'll keep growing your whole life long."

* * *

The next Sunday, Gilbert appeared at the Public Garden gate carrying his own newly-purchased doctor's bag.

"So you mean to stay, then?" Dr. Parkman asked, eyeing the bag.

"I can't be relying on you for thermometers and such," Gilbert replied. "Besides, I used to dream of this bag. I never had a reason to buy it, though." He did not add that he had packed and re-packed it four times over the past day, including once before dawn that morning.

Dr. Parkman merely nodded and began walking down Boylston Street toward St. James.

"Attending Mass today?" Dr. Parkman asked as they set up the screens in the church basement.

"No," Gilbert replied. "It was fascinating, though. Do the people in the congregation understand all that Latin?"

"No," Dr. Parkman frowned. "Only bits of it. Contributes to the mystery, I suppose."

"It seems strange to me to pray in a language you don't speak."

Dr. Parkman considered. "It's not only about the words. It's about feeling a prayer. And about knowing that you're standing just as your ancestors stood, speaking the words they spoke."

"How can you believe something you don't understand?" Gilbert protested.

"We're catechized as well, Dr. Blythe," Dr. Parkman said, raising a delicate brow.

Gilbert flinched. "Of course. I didn't mean . . . of course you understand . . ."

Dr. Parkman rolled her eyes. "Am I correct in assuming that you were raised Protestant, Dr. Blythe?"

"Presbyterian."

"So lots of Bible reading? Sunday school? Memorizing weekly verses and catechism questions, that sort of thing?"

"Er . . . yes."

"And when you had memorized all the answers in plain English, then you understood?" she asked.

"I think the more I learned, the less I understood," Gilbert replied, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck.

Dr. Parkman nodded. "That's because God isn't a series of correct answers on a page, Dr. Blythe. God is . . . paradox. Refuge. Rage."

Gilbert was surprised. "Rage? I've heard _God is love_ , but not rage."

Dr. Parkman set her bag on the examination table. "Yes. That's how I see it, at least. Rage against Nature. Human nature, of course, but also against the indifferent laws of the natural world."

As so often happened in conversation with Dr. Parkman, Gilbert felt that she had skipped some important context, jumping to the end of a thought without leading him through the middle. "I'm not sure I follow," he said.

She folded her arms across her chest. "Are you familiar with the phrase, _Nature red in tooth and claw_? From Tennyson?"

Gilbert paled. _Familiar_ seemed an inadequate word for the way he knew Tennyson's "In Memoriam, A.H.H." It seemed . . . indecent . . . somehow to discuss it in mundane conversation.

 _Who trusted God was love indeed,  
_ _And love Creation's final law —  
_ _Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw  
_ _With ravine shriek'd against his creed . . ._

 _O life as futile, then, as frail!_  
 _O for thy voice to soothe and bless!_  
 _What hope of answer, or redress?_  
 _Behind the veil, behind the veil._

"Yes. I . . . I know it," Gilbert replied rather faintly.

"Nature is death and waste and entropy," said Dr. Parkman, who did not appear to be similarly afflicted. "Diseases are mindless, senseless microbes that destroy with impunity. God is the force that fights back. Extends mercy and forgiveness whether it's deserved or not. Heals. God rages against chaos and commands us to resist as well."

"I'm not sure Tennyson thought resistance was much use," Gilbert said, regarding Dr. Parkman warily.

"It isn't always," Dr. Parkman conceded. "Certainly when Tennyson lost his friend, there was little enough that could have been done to save him. But we're putting up a fight now. If I can thwart some of the suffering in the world, that's the work God has given me to do. It's why I'm here. And in the lab."

Dr. Parkman turned back to her crate and continued stacking bandages.

Gilbert focused on breathing long, even breaths, and began unpacking his own equipment. The stethoscope was familiar, of course, but everything else in his bag sparkled with lack of use.

 _Only one way to fix that._

There was work to be done. Gilbert knew that he had contributed to that work over the years, but actually treating patients was different. Data and experiments and advancements in vaccine preparation were well and good; they would save the lives of untold, unseen, unknowing millions. But it was something else entirely to save the individual life before you — the breathing, loving, fearful, wonderful, imperfect, irreplaceable person.

There would be no dramatic life-saving at the St. James clinic today. Gilbert was half-glad of it. He knew that he could not battle the Great Destroyer face-to-face, and that knowledge was a deep emptiness that longed to be filled. Not today, though. Smaller steps today.

Gilbert reached into his coat pocket and drew out a bulging paper sack.

"Peppermint?" he asked, offering the bag to Dr. Parkman.

She appraised the over-full bag with skepticism. "Fond of peppermints, are you?"

"I brought them for the patients," Gilbert shrugged.

"So you're going to bribe their affections with candy?" Dr. Parkman asked. Thankfully, she appeared to be amused, rather than offended.

"I just thought I might be able to distract them from my poor bandaging. Until I can practice up a bit, of course."

Dr. Parkman's mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile. "Trying to lure them away from me, are you?"

Gilbert reached into his other pocket and produced another sack. "Do you want to be peppermints or lemon drops? Your choice."

* * *

That evening, Gilbert sat at his kitchen table, rolling up his shirtsleeves. This accomplished, he seized a scalpel from the newly-purchased case at his elbow and made a long, deep cut in the enormous pork shoulder before him. Mrs. Milligan had purchased the meat yesterday, muttering darkly about men and their strange ways. But she had left it as requested — raw, with the skin still on — for Sunday.

Gilbert checked the textbook diagram once more for reassurance. He selected a glistening needle from the case, plucked a catgut fiber from its carbolic acid bath, and threaded the needle carefully.

Biting his lip in concentration, he sutured the gash shut. Then he cut another. And another.


	46. Chapter 13: On Sundays

**Author's Note:**

 **Thank you all for your wonderful reviews and messages! I have had an amazing weekend reading all of your feedback. Thank you especially to those of you who have been reading along for a while and are now letting me know that you're out there — I'm so grateful.**

 **I see in the comments that some of you are beginning to become invested in Dr. Mary Parkman, but others are still on the fence. I'll be curious to check back in with you over the next five or six chapters . . .**

* * *

Chapter 13: On Sundays

* * *

Massachusetts General Hospital smelled just as Kingsport Hospital had. The scent of soap and carbolic acid could not quite eliminate the sinister odors of illness, no matter how well the corridors were scrubbed.

"Dr. Blythe? Are you ready to begin?"

Gilbert regarded the white-haired doctor before him. Dr. Lodge oversaw the trauma ward at Mass General, treating patients with complex bone fractures, burns, and other injuries resulting from all manner of mishap. He and Gilbert had become acquainted during Dr. Cabot's convalescence. When Gilbert had approached him to ask if he might visit the ward on some Saturdays to brush up on his clinical skills, Dr. Lodge had been only too happy to oblige.

"Dr. Blythe?"

For a single instant, Gilbert felt light-headed. The people here were desperately injured, desperately ill. Some of them would never leave this ward. There would be nowhere to hide, no hanging toward the back of the group as he had done in medical school.

And yet . . . he had come here of his own accord. Something had pushed him? Pulled him? Called him here? He might have said that he only wished to serve the people of St. James better. That was certainly part of it, but only part.

Gilbert pressed a slightly tremulous hand to his waistcoat pocket, steadying his fingers. Then, taking a deep breath, he approached the first patient's bed.

* * *

"You weren't in the lab yesterday," Dr. Parkman observed the next day as she accepted her bag of lemon drops.

"No. I had some other business to attend to." Gilbert did not know why he should conceal his time at Mass General from her, but he felt unaccountably shy about it. How foolish.

Dr. Parkman raised an eyebrow, but did not press for more information. Gilbert busied himself with his instruments, setting out his suture kit in a little tray on his own examination table.

"Going to try sutures today, are you?"

"If anyone needs them, yes. I shouldn't need to pass routine patients over to you."

Dr. Parkman smirked. "You've only been coming here three months. Do you think that's long enough for anyone to let you stick them with a needle?"

"I suppose we'll find out."

The basement doors opened then, disgorging the usual crowd. They filled the chairs with their battered bodies and the air with their wonderful voices.

"Ready?" Dr. Parkman asked.

Before Gilbert could reply, she strode forward to welcome a woman who was clutching the hand of a red-faced toddler. "And what seems to be the trouble today, Timothy?" Dr. Parkman asked, crouching to address the child. "Tell Dr. Mary all about it."

Gilbert watched as she escorted the pair behind her screen, only looking to his first patient once she had disappeared.

* * *

As it happened, no one needed sutures that day. Nevertheless, Gilbert felt that he had acquitted himself well, cleaning and bandaging wounds, pulling an infected tooth, and unsheathing his little-used scalpel to lance a boil. He even got to try a trick that Dr. Lodge had demonstrated, applying strategic pressure to pop Peter Kelly's dislocated elbow back into place. The look of surprised relief that came over the man's face when the joint slid home was all the reward Gilbert had ever wanted.

Not every patient was so easily cured. A middle-aged woman Gilbert didn't recognize came to him complaining of a splitting headache, severe back pain, and the beginnings of some sort of rash. She had a fever and shivered despite the summer heat. It wasn't the season for flu, and Gilbert couldn't quite convince himself that it _was_ flu, though it seemed similar. He advised her to keep to her bed and drink plenty of fluids.

* * *

That afternoon, Gilbert walked Dr. Parkman back to her boarding house. Though he had invited her once or twice before to join him for dinner after they had closed up the clinic, she had refused. This time was no different.

"My apologies, Dr. Blythe. I must be getting home."

Gilbert was not much disappointed. It would have been pleasant to have a collegial dinner with Dr. Parkman, but he had to admit that he did enjoy relaxing on his Sunday afternoons after a long week of work. Perhaps he would write a letter to his parents. And he was woefully behind in his correspondence with Phil and Diana.

"In that case, I leave you here, Dr. Parkman," Gilbert said, tipping his hat to her at her boarding house door. He turned to leave, but stopped at the sound of his name.

"Dr. Blythe? You could . . . call me . . . Mary. If you wanted to." Two bright spots burned in her cheeks. "On Sundays."

"On Sundays?" Gilbert asked, amused by her discomfort.

"Away from the lab, I mean."

"I see. In that case, I must ask you to call me Gilbert." He smiled mischievously. "On Sundays."

"Yes. Well. Thank you for your help today, Dr. Blythe . . . er . . . Gilbert."

"I'll see you tomorrow. Mary."

Smiling, Gilbert began to walk down Boylston Street. He had not gone far when he turned back once more, for what reason he would not have been able to say. He had expected to see nothing but the boarding house, or, perhaps, Dr. Parkman — that is to say _Mary_ — closing the door behind her.

Instead, he watched in consternation as her cornflower blue dress disappeared into a waiting cab.


	47. Chapter 14: What's in a Name?

Chapter 14: What's in a Name?

* * *

Anne lay in the grass beneath an apple tree, asleep. Her skirt spread around her, a black splash against the lush carpet of green, and her pleated crepe bodice rose and fell with every steady, gentle breath.

Gilbert leaned against the trunk, watching her. He could never look at Anne like this when she was awake, drinking his fill, memorizing every freckle and lash. Even if she had allowed it, he couldn't have risked her seeing what she surely would see if he gazed at her too long without looking away.

It was summer still, but the sun was down behind the tops of the firs and the breeze carried a whisper of autumn. They could not stay much longer. Not here, beneath the apple tree, and not here, in Avonlea, together. Another two weeks and Gilbert would be off to White Sands again, to spend his weeks in yearning and his weekends in wary hopefulness.

But for just this moment, he was perfectly, blissfully happy.

As he watched her breathe, Gilbert thought about waking Anne with a kiss. It would be so easy to just lean over and touch his lips to hers, to see her eyes open into his. But no. That would not be fair. He could not kiss her when she was asleep and had no choice. When Anne kissed him, someday, he wanted her to do it with her eyes wide open.

Instead, he kissed his own fingertips, then reached out to stroke her shining hair.

"Anne . . . Anne . . . wake up," he called, much too softly to accomplish his half-hearted goal.

She did not stir, giving him time to loop a curl around one finger, feel the silkiness of the bright lock against his skin.

"Anne . . . Anne . . . wake up," louder this time.

Anne opened one gray-green eye, then shut it again. A moment later, she opened both eyes and met Gilbert's hazel gaze with a sleepy smile.

He thought his heart might stop. Had stopped.

Gilbert was the first to look away, veiling his own eyes to hide what Anne would surely see if she only cared to look.

"Did you call me, Gil?" Anne asked, not making any effort to sit up.

"It's time to wake up, Anne. You've been asleep a long time."

"Oh, Gil, I'm sorry. We were supposed to go for one of our long rambles. I'm sorry to waste your afternoon."

"Don't worry. You didn't."

Anne sat up, smiling as she pulled leaves and bits of grass from her hair. Gilbert reached over to help, savoring the feeling of having her so close, warm under his tentative hand.

"Am I myself again?" she asked, smoothing her braid.

"Not as much as you were with the leaves in," Gilbert winked.

Anne laughed. "I can't go home looking like a forest nymph. Mrs. Lynde would scold. It isn't proper for the Avonlea schoolma'am to go about with leaves in her hair."

"You won't be the Avonlea schoolma'am forever," Gilbert commented. "But you'll always be Anne. And I expect that Anne will always have leaves in her hair, whether it's proper or not."

He rose and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. She stood beside him, red hair brushing his chin as it blew in the breeze.

"Anne?"

"Hmmm?"

"Nothing. I just . . . let's get you home."

* * *

It took several weeks for Gilbert to work up the courage to ask Mary about the cab. He had been on the point of blurting his curiosity on multiple occasions, but had admonished himself each time. It was none of his business.

Still, each Sunday, after bidding Mary farewell at her door, Gilbert would walk to the end of the block and turn. Every time, she climbed into a cab as soon as she thought he was gone. It may have been none of his business where she went, but that didn't mean he didn't wonder.

In the end, he opted to probe in a roundabout way.

"I've been thinking," Gilbert said one evening over tea in the lab. "Do you think we should extend the clinic hours at St. James? I'm sure there must be other people in the neighborhood who would benefit if we stayed open for an extra hour or two."

Mary sipped her tea, unconcerned. "I think we see all those who wish to be seen. I'm not sure staying later would do much good."

"I suppose you're right," Gilbert shrugged. "And it's nice to have an afternoon at home at least once a week, isn't it?"

"Hmmm," Mary replied through her teacup.

Gilbert said nothing. If she didn't wish to tell him where she went on Sundays, he wouldn't ask her directly. He sipped his tea and waited.

After a long pause, Mary set her teacup down on its saucer. She folded her arms over her black lab attire and fixed Gilbert with her most piercing look. "Dr. Blythe, if you wish to know where I go on Sunday afternoons, you would do well to ask me directly, rather than attempting to conceal your objective."

Gilbert stared guiltily into his cup. "You have no obligation to satisfy my curiosity," he mumbled, realizing what a bad idea this had been.

"If you must know . . . I go to visit my family," Mary said.

Gilbert pictured the friendly, round-faced O'Connors "Oh. Is that all? Please give my best to your parents."

"No. Not my parents."

Mary was silent for a long moment, pressing her left thumb across her knuckle. She seemed to be deciding something. When she had, she spoke quietly. "Dr. Blythe, you know that I was married."

Gilbert merely nodded.

Mary inhaled. "My husband's name was . . . Henry. We had two children. Elsie and James. On Sunday afternoons, I go to Mount Auburn Cemetery. To visit."

Gilbert felt the blood drain from his face.

"I . . . I'm sorry, Dr. Parkman. I had no idea. I didn't mean to pry."

Mary shook her head. "No. You needn't apologize. They are never far from my thoughts. And I find . . . sometimes . . . that it does me good to speak of them."

Gilbert's heart was in his throat. He had no wish to upset her, but he was certainly curious. "I'd be happy to listen," he said at last. "If you want to talk about them, I mean."

Mary gave a tight smile. "I don't mind telling. I met Henry in college. He was at Harvard, but he had a school friend at Boston University and he used to come over the river for dances." She shrugged. "We fell in love. We were married a week after I graduated."

Gilbert nodded, not wishing to derail her story, nor ask her anything more than she wished to tell.

"Elsie was born the next year," Mary said, smiling wistfully. "She was such a little imp, even from the first. Forever asking _why_ and never taking any warning seriously. I can't tell you how many scrapes and burns and sprains she suffered, but every time, she'd just chatter away, telling me what she had discovered, even as I bandaged her up."

"A born scientist?" Gilbert asked kindly.

"Oh, yes. She would have put us all to shame." Mary's smile flashed suddenly brighter. "She would have made a meal of Dr. Lowell, I'm sure of it."

Her face softened, and Gilbert knew that she was not sitting there with him. She had traveled across time and space somewhere where he could not follow.

"James was just a baby," Mary said more quietly. "I never really got to know him as a person. He was only three months old. But he was a sweet baby. Quiet and observant, not forever kicking against his swaddling like Elsie."

Gilbert did not ask her to continue, but Mary took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

"There was a terrible diphtheria epidemic. James went first, then Henry. For a while, it looked like Elsie might pull through. But, no. I never even got sick . . ." she said, trailing off.

"I'm so sorry, Dr. Parkman," Gilbert said, meaning it. "And I'm sorry for bringing it up. I had no idea."

"No, but now you do. I don't mind talking about them. It can be a relief, just saying their names aloud."

Gilbert nodded, not sure if he believed that.

Mary swallowed once, but her face was impassive. Suddenly, she looked up and met Gilbert's gaze with startling frankness.

"Now then, Dr. Blythe. Why aren't _you_ married?"

Gilbert spluttered into his tea.

"Dr. Parkman, I hardly think . . ."

"No," she interrupted crisply. "You know my history now. The least you can do is return the courtesy."

"I . . ." Gilbert was dismayed to find himself so discomposed. He groped for words, finally forcing a few brief syllables between his teeth. "I was engaged once."

"And . . ."

The teacup in Gilbert's hand rattled against its saucer. He put it down firmly and dug his nails into his palms under the desk.

"She died. Of typhoid."

"What was her name?" Mary asked, without mercy.

Gilbert could feel the room begin to fall away around him, the sudden roaring. He wouldn't. Couldn't. How long had it been?

Once — only once — he had spoken her name, kneeling on her grave, desperate in the infancy of his grief. That had hurt so much that he had never said it again. Even in the privacy of his own thoughts, she was always just _her_ , always present, but never resolving into anything as focused as an utterable name. Now the old electric barrier in his brain was sizzling frantically, screaming of danger ahead. _Don't get any closer_ . . .

But Mary had asked a simple, direct question.

With an enormous effort, Gilbert managed a hoarse whisper.

"Anne."

Mary looked him over keenly. If he had been able to meet her eye, he would have seen it soften.

"And how long since you've said her name aloud?" she asked, more gently.

Gilbert's head snapped up then, meeting Mary's steady gaze. She was resolute, but her dark brown eyes were not unkind.

Gilbert only looked his astonishment. How could she possibly have known?

"You are not the only person who has ever lost a spouse," Mary said.

"We . . . we were never married," replied Gilbert, barely audible.

"Do you find that that makes much of a difference?"

Gilbert could have growled at her. How dare she ask such personal questions? It was entirely inappropriate. He certainly need not have answered her.

But, for some reason, Gilbert found his panic dissipating. Mary was blunt enough, for sure. But her questions were not antagonistic. If anything, they were revelatory. Without saying so directly, she had let Gilbert catch a glimpse of her own grief. She had opened a door just a crack, and invited him to walk through.

"No, I suppose it doesn't," he answered.

Mary nodded, satisfied.


	48. Chapter 15: Politics and Principles

Chapter 15: Politics and Principles

* * *

"Dr. Blythe, do settle down!" Mrs. Milligan scolded. "You haven't touched a bite of breakfast and you're fidgety as a schoolboy in church."

"Sorry, Mrs. Milligan," Gilbert apologized, stilling his bouncing leg with an effort. He sipped his tea and nibbled a corner of toast, unable to commit to eggs.

He had spent much of the night fretting. What had possessed him to ask about Mary's Sunday afternoons? _Stupid_. He should have known better than to think he was being subtle; she always had that trick of jumping two or three steps ahead in any conversation, getting straight to the point.

Would she resent his intrusion? Would she regret revealing what she had? Would she avoid him?

Gilbert imagined every permutation of Mary's anger, every possible opportunity for awkwardness between them. Strangely, he felt neither angry nor awkward himself. It had been a shock, certainly, to be questioned so perceptively. To reveal such personal things, even in outline. To say . . . _Anne_ . . . for the first time in fourteen years.

But Gilbert was not angry. He was anxious, but only because he feared that he might have gone too far, broken the little trust of friendship that had grown up between them over the past several months. Was that over now? He misbuttoned his coat, had to start again.

 _Do settle down._

* * *

Dr. Lowell was on about politics. There was a mayoral election on the horizon, and Dr. Lowell had strong opinions. The incumbent mayor of Boston, Thomas Norton Hart, was a Republican, a man of fiscal rectitude, the grandson of a Revolutionary War officer. The challenger, Patrick Collins, was . . . not.

"Collins wasn't even born in this country!" Lowell bristled. "We must ensure that the city is run by those best suited to leadership. By men with deep roots in Massachusetts, not upstarts and foreigners!"

Drs. Appleton and Cabot nodded politely, more interested in their work than in encouraging Dr. Lowell.

Perhaps Gilbert should have put an end to Lowell's speeches. If he couldn't have told him to hold his tongue, at least he could have invented an errand to send him away for a while. But Gilbert was too preoccupied with watching Mary out of the corner of his eye. She looked calm enough, quietly titrating an experimental solution, never deigning to look at Dr. Lowell. Nor at Gilbert, for that matter.

"What about you, Dr. Blythe?" Lowell asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Are you a Republican or a Democrat?"

"I'm Canadian," Gilbert answered, glad to have an easy exit from this conversation.

"So you don't vote?" Lowell seemed disappointed.

"Can't," Gilbert shrugged.

Mary rose from her workbench and headed for the supply closet. As she passed behind Dr. Lowell's workbench, she turned to look directly at Gilbert. Inclining her head toward Dr. Lowell, she rolled her eyes violently, then smiled.

Gilbert worked very hard to suppress his own smile, lest Dr. Lowell should see.

* * *

"Surely, you must have politics, Dr. Blythe, even if you are Canadian," Mary said over tea that evening.

"I suppose," Gilbert replied feebly.

"You suppose?" Mary sounded both skeptical and slightly annoyed. "There must be causes you believe in."

"I believe in preventing typhoid."

"Beyond that, though. You have no interest in civic affairs?"

Gilbert ruffled his brown curls. "When I was a boy, I was a liberal. Grits, they're called, in Canada. But when I got a little older, well . . ."

"I see," Mary said. "You're one of those. Youthful idealist turned conservative?"

"Not exactly."

"What then?"

Gilbert smiled sheepishly. "I heard once _that when a man is courting he always has to agree with the girl's mother in religion and her father in politics_. I was already a Presbyterian, but I'm afraid I felt rather pressured to turn Tory."*

"Ah," Mary said through a chuckle. "Anne's father was a conservative?"

Gilbert took a deliberate breath, but answered calmly. "Anne was an orphan. She was adopted by an elderly brother and sister, Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert. Matthew was a Tory and that was all Anne needed to know to declare her own allegiance."

"Dr. Blythe!" Mary laughed. "You changed your politics for a girl?"

"And gladly," Gilbert admitted.

"I'm afraid that's not very principled of you," Mary teased.

"Sure it is. Just different principles. But what of your politics, Dr. Parkman?"

She regarded him slantwise. "Why, _Votes for Women_ , Dr. Blythe."

Gilbert chuckled. "You're a suffragette?"

"I find that I am somewhat too busy to chain myself to the State House doors," Mary answered. "But I've been known to carry a placard or two."

"If you could vote in this election, would you be for Hart or Collins?" Gilbert asked.

"An easy choice for me, even before Dr. Lowell opened his mouth. I'm not sure I could vote for Hart and show my face at St. James ever again."

Gilbert hesitated, still unsure of where they stood. But she had asked about Anne . . .

"Was Henry a conservative or a liberal?"

Mary blinked, but she could not stop herself from smiling into her tea. Eyes twinkling, she asked, "Before he met me or after?"

* * *

* _Anne of Green Gables_ , chapter 18. RIP, Ruby Gillis. Somebody please explain Gilbert's political transformation to me. In _Anne of Green Gables_ , he is explicitly a Grit, but by _Anne's House of Dreams_ , he's a Tory. Is there a fic exploring this? If so, please direct me to it.


	49. Chapter 16: 560,000 Lives

Chapter 16: 560,000 Lives

* * *

Autumn came to Boston, gilding the elms of Commonwealth Avenue in shades of honey and lemon. There were no apple orchards here, no harvests of golden wheat, no wagonloads of potatoes rumbling over red roads toward the train depots. But the apples and wheat and potatoes were here nevertheless. They arrived here from everywhere, anonymous in the market stalls, far from the fields where they had grown. And even in the midst of Boston, it was sometimes possible to catch a breath of crispness redolent of earth and woodsmoke and the musty odor of fallen leaves.

One Monday morning, Gilbert arrived at the lab to find printed notices affixed to every door. There was to be an emergency meeting of the entire medical faculty that day at noon, attendance mandatory. The notice gave no further information, ensuring that the whole building spent the morning abuzz with speculation.

At noon, Gilbert and his staff joined their colleagues in the velvet-covered seats of the first-floor lecture hall. Drs. Appleton, Cabot, and Lowell whispered among themselves, guessing that Dean Hilliard had called them together to announce the location of the new medical school campus, or else that he was planning to retire. Dr. Parkman sat silently on Gilbert's other side, clenching and unclenching her fist.

The restless crowd quieted immediately when Dean Hilliard took the podium. He was a large, broad-shouldered man, given to hearty handshakes and jovial cajoling, but Gilbert thought he looked ill today. Lacking some of his customary buoyance, the Dean addressed the faculty.

"Thank you all for assembling on such short notice. There is a serious matter I must place before you today. I have no wish to torment you with suspense, so I will come straight to the point. Over the past several weeks, the Board of Health has traced an increasing number of smallpox cases in Boston. As of today, the Board is prepared to announce that the spread of the disease is intensifying and will soon reach epidemic proportions in the population at large."

A susurrus ran through the hall. "Smallpox? Surely not," Dr. Cabot hissed at Dr. Appleton.

Gilbert felt a sickening emptiness in his stomach. He glanced down at Dr. Parkman beside him. At the word _epidemic_ , she had gone completely rigid, to the point where Gilbert wondered whether she were still breathing. She looked up at him in horror, dark brown eyes gone huge in her ashen face.

Dean Hilliard held up his hands for quiet, but it was a minute or more before he managed to restore order. "Please, gentlemen, please. Your attention is most urgently required. As you may know, our colleague, Dr. Samuel Durgin, serves as the chairman of the Boston Board of Health.* I will now turn the podium over to him so that he may inform you of the preventative measures the Board has put in place. Dr. Durgin?"

A balding man with an impressive mustache took the podium. "Thank you, Dean Hilliard. Gentlemen, a crisis is upon us. As you know, there has not been an epidemic of smallpox in this city in many years. Most of the population is at risk, particularly in those parts of the city inhabited by immigrants and the poor. Therefore, the Board of Health has authorized the creation of improvised vaccination clinics in every precinct. Any doctor who wishes to volunteer will be provided with as many doses of smallpox vaccine as the Board can procure. Vaccination will be provided free of charge to all inhabitants of the city. We have also established a dedicated smallpox hospital on Southampton Street for the treatment of those already infected. I understand that you are all busy men, but I would beg you, in this time of emergency, to donate your time and skills to this effort. There are 560,000 people living in this city and we need to vaccinate as many of them as possible."

Dropping his voice to lower tones, Dr. Durgin continued. "I know that I do not need to convince anyone in this hall of the dangers of smallpox. I will only note that past epidemics have hit this city very hard. Nearly two centuries ago, the smallpox epidemic of 1721 sickened 6,000 people and killed more than 800. That was when Boston had a population of 10,000. A similar outbreak today would strike more than 300,000 people. As many as 50,000 would die."

He cleared his throat, went on more steadily. "As we speak, my colleagues from the Board of Health are setting up tables in the corridor outside to distribute supplies and assign precincts to anyone who wishes to volunteer as a vaccinator. Those who join us will have the thanks of a grateful city, along with my own personal gratitude."

The crowd had begun to move almost before Dr. Durgin had finished speaking. A tremor of nervous excitement crackled through the hall as many members of the Harvard faculty imagined themselves the celebrated saviors of the city.

Gilbert turned back to Mary, whose face had lost all trace of color. "Go," he whispered. "Find Monsignor McQuaid. I'll get supplies. We'll start tonight if we can, and stay as long as necessary."

Mary nodded, but did not rise.

"Dr. Parkman," Gilbert said, worried. "Are you alright?"

"I . . ." She swallowed. "Yes. I'll go. The lab . . . ?"

"It's closed," Gilbert assured her. "I'll bring the others with me." He nearly smiled at the baleful look that chased some of the fear from her face. "I'm sure there will be plenty of crates to carry."

Dr. Parkman nodded again, and managed to gain her feet.

"I'll be right behind you," Gilbert said just before she disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

Three hours later, Gilbert led Drs. Appleton, Cabot, and Lowell through the doors of St. James the Greater. Each carried a large carton containing a kit from the Board of Health: bottles of alcohol for disinfection, rolls of absorbent cotton, and hundreds of tiny boxes of vaccine points — individual doses of smallpox vaccine in single-use injectors.**

Mary and Monsignor McQuaid were in the basement, working together to move the two examination tables into position in front of the stage.

Gilbert set his carton down in the middle of the floor and gestured for the others to wait there. He approached cautiously, spoke softly.

"Dr. Parkman?"

Her face was no longer a dull, alarming gray. Instead, all the color had concentrated itself in livid spots of deep scarlet in both cheeks. Her eyes, always large and dark, were ferocious coals against the general pallor.

"We've brought the supplies," Gilbert said in tones of calm assurance. "Twelve hundred doses. And we can get more if we need them."

Monsignor McQuaid held out his hand. "Thank you, Dr. Blythe. Dr. Mary and I were just discussing logistics. I think it is too late to open the clinic this afternoon, but if you will help set up here, I will go spread word that we will begin tomorrow at nine o'clock."

"Seven," was all Mary said.

Monsignor McQuaid nodded. "Seven, then."

"Thank you, Monsignor," Gilbert replied. "My staff and I can help Dr. Parkman with the setup."

The priest took his leave and Gilbert turned back to Appleton, Cabot, and Lowell. He told them where to find the folding chairs and instructed them to set up rows across the basement, leaving an aisle down the center.

"Dr. Parkman," Gilbert said, "come help me carry out the card table."

When he had her alone in the wings of the stage, Gilbert gripped Mary's elbow. "Mary, are you alright?"

She stared for a moment, then let out a harsh whisper. "Smallpox! _Smallpox?_ Now? In the twentieth century? We have vaccines! _Smallpox?_ How?"

Gilbert tried to calm her. "We do. We have vaccines. We have plenty of doses. Mary, everything is going to be fine. We'll reach everyone."

She met his gaze, lip quivering, on the verge of tears. "No, we won't. Not everyone. The people won't come! They'll be afraid! They won't trust the Board of Health!"

"They'll come, Mary," Gilbert said, holding her arm steady. "They trust Monsignor McQuaid. They trust _you_."

Mary nodded, blinking back the moisture in her eyes. From the hall came a clatter of chairs falling and a string of colorful invective from Dr. Lowell.

Mary let out a snort tinged with laughter. "You had to bring _him_? Here?"

Gilbert grimaced. "It's a public health emergency."

She made a brave attempt at a smile.

Gilbert squeezed her arm once more and then let go. "Come on, Dr. Parkman. Let's get your clinic ready."

* * *

*Dr. Samuel Holmes Durgin (1841-1905), a member of the Harvard Medical School Faculty, served as chairman of the Boston Board of Health during the 1901-2 smallpox epidemic.

**These are the actual contents of the Board of Health kits distributed to physicians during the Boston smallpox epidemic of 1901-2.


	50. Chapter 17: Threats and Countermeasures

Chapter 17: Threats and Countermeasures

* * *

The next morning, Gilbert rose before dawn and stood before his wardrobe, considering. He always wore his old brown suit to the St. James clinic. _Approachable_. If the people really were mistrustful of the Board of Health, as Mary feared they would be, the vaccinators would need to be as warm and welcoming as possible.

But Drs. Appleton, Cabot, and Lowell had never seen Gilbert in anything but his more authoritative and imposing Harvard attire. Had never seen Mary, either. Gilbert reached for the brown suit, wondering what she would wear today.

He walked through the doors of St. James at 6:30. Mary was already there. In blue. Gilbert smiled and handed her a danish and an insulated flask.

"Tea?" she asked.

"Coffee. From Mrs. Milligan. All yours."

When Appleton, Cabot, and Lowell arrived together twenty minutes later, Gilbert was dismayed, though not surprised, to see them goggle at Mary in her St. James clothes. Lowell whispered something to Appleton and snickered. Gilbert caught his eye and stared him down until he looked away. Mary, preoccupied with preparations for her patients, appeared not to notice.

* * *

At seven o'clock, Monsignor McQuaid opened the doors to admit the hundreds queuing on the steps of St. James. The lab staff had their supplies arrayed on the tables near the stage: Appleton and Cabot sharing one examination table, Gilbert and Mary in the center, and Dr. Lowell at the card table off to one side by himself. In addition to the Board of Health supplies, Gilbert had provided each of his subordinates with a bowl of peppermints he had filled from the enormous sack at his own station. As the first patients rumbled down the stairs toward the basement, Gilbert passed Mary a large bag of lemon drops and gave her an encouraging smile.

All morning long, the doctors swabbed, soothed, and stuck the never-ending flood of patients. Monsignor McQuaid kept order, minding the queue and delegating altar boys to assist the elderly and the disabled. At Mary's insistence, one boy was appointed to collect every empty vaccine point box so that they could keep an accurate count of how many people had been vaccinated.

Gilbert recognized many of his patients from the Sunday clinic. Even those he had never treated were often familiar to him as the parents or children of patients, or as faces from the crowd at Mass.

"Mrs. Brennan!" he greeted the mother of a boy who had long since recovered from a sprained ankle. "And Tommy. How's the ankle? Playing football again?"

"You bet, Dr. Blythe," Tommy grinned. He held the hands of two small girls — his sisters, Gilbert assumed.

Mrs. Brennan shifted the toddler she carried on her hip. "Dr. Blythe? This vaccine — is it _safe_? It doesn't seem right, sticking the children with a disease on purpose."

Gilbert nodded solemnly. "Mrs. Brennan, I will tell you the truth. Nothing is completely without risk. Some people have reactions to the vaccine, and it's not always completely effective. That's the truth."

Mrs. Brennan pressed her lips together, but Gilbert was not finished. "It is also true that smallpox catches like wildfire. And for every five or six people who fall ill, one will die."

Mrs. Brennan glanced briefly at her children, then set her jaw. "Do mine first," she said. "Then the children."

* * *

They worked through the morning and into the afternoon. Women from the Society of St. Vincent de Paul brought sandwiches for patients and doctors alike, and Gilbert cajoled Mary into taking a quarter-hour break. The pile of empty boxes grew steadily; the queue did not diminish.

Sometime around mid-afternoon, Gilbert registered Dr. Lowell's voice shouting above the general din.

". . . completely irresponsible! Vaccination is mandatory for everyone! She'll have it, or we'll call the police to help you comply with orders!"

Gilbert whipped around to see a man, his sleeve rolled up and a bandage already wrapped around his arm, standing protectively in front of a brown-haired girl. Dr. Lowell, red in the face, was leaning in viciously, berating the man for declining to vaccinate his daughter.

Gilbert was in the middle of disinfecting a patient's arm, but he set down his cotton swab and stepped toward Lowell. Not fast enough. Dr. Parkman was already across the room. She planted herself between Dr. Lowell and the man, jabbing a finger toward Lowell's chest.

"How dare you speak to my patients that way?" she hissed.

"He's refusing to vaccinate his daughter." Lowell whined. "It's compulsory! Everyone must be vaccinated! My father is drawing up legislation right now to make refusal punishable by a fine or jail time."*

"Get out of my clinic," Dr. Parkman spat.

"Dr. Parkman, now is hardly the . . ."

"GET OUT!"

The basement had gone silent, all eyes trained on the scene.

Dr. Lowell looked about, but found no friendly faces in that company. Purple with fury, he stormed out of the hall, slamming the door behind him.

Dr. Parkman stalked back to her station, breathing like a furnace. When she reached the table, Gilbert caught her gaze, his own hazel eyes dancing. She managed a grudging smile; he used all his powers of self-control to keep from laughing aloud.

* * *

Toward evening, the crowd began to thin. Gilbert sent Drs. Appleton and Cabot back to Harvard to track down more vaccine points for the next day's work. He thought they must have vaccinated most of the St. James congregation today, but there were others in the neighborhood. Word would spread.

Monsignor McQuaid was on the point of shutting the doors when a large group entered the hall. There were several families at least, with a crowd of children ranging in age from babes in arms to nearly-grown adolescents. Gilbert recognized the older couple at the center of the pack.

"Mother! Da!" Mary left her work station and flew to them, pulling both into her embrace. Many others in the group surrounded her. "Aunt Mary! Aunt Mary!" called a little girl with a riot of black curls, bouncing on her tiptoes.

Mary led her family toward the front of the hall. She showed them the vaccine points, explained how the procedure worked.

"I'm so glad you're all here," she said, her eyes shining. "If you'll just form two lines, Dr. Blythe will assist me, and we'll have you all vaccinated right away."

The black-haired girl was first in Mary's queue. Gilbert turned to his own line, finding that his first patient was a tall, burly man whose black beard suggested that he might be the girl's father.

"So _you're_ Dr. Blythe," the man said, sizing Gilbert up.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. . . ."

"O'Connor. I'm Michael O'Connor. Mary's older brother. And that's Timothy," he pointed to another man in the queue, "and Seamus," another, "and Patrick. Mary's the baby of our family."

"I see," Gilbert said. "Well, it's very nice to meet all of you. I don't think I recognize you from St. James."

"No," said Michael, rolling up a sleeve over a work-hardened arm. "We live down in Dorchester. But Mary sent for us. And when Mary sends for us, we come."

"Good," Gilbert said, swabbing Michael's shoulder. "You'll be safe and sound once you get your vaccines."

"And has Mary had her vaccine?" Michael asked.

"Um, yes. Yes, all the medical staff keep their vaccinations current."

"Good," Michael replied curtly. "Just making sure she's safe as well."

"Quite safe," Gilbert answered, feeling a flush creep up past his collar. "You needn't worry on her account."

"Glad to hear it," Michael replied. He did not flinch when Gilbert stuck him with a vaccine point.

* * *

When all the O'Connor brothers and their wives and children had been vaccinated, they took it upon themselves to set the hall to rights. They straightened rows of chairs, collected rubbish, and made everything neat and orderly for the next day's clinic.

Gilbert helped Mary take an inventory of the medical supplies. He did not need to look up to feel Michael O'Connor's eyes on him, and was careful to keep an examination table between himself and Mary at all times.

"That's 1,030 doses in all," Mary announced when she had tallied up the empty vaccine point boxes.

"Not bad for a day's work," Gilbert congratulated her. "And we'll be back tomorrow."

Mary smiled. She looked tired, but her face had lost yesterday's frantic coloring. "Thank you, Dr. Blythe," she said. "For all your help."

"I'm the one who should be thanking you, Dr. Parkman. You gave me a rare gift today."

"I did?"

"Yes. I will treasure the look on Dr. Lowell's face for the rest of my days."

Mary laughed. "I would say I'm sorry, but I'm not."

"You shouldn't be. You were magnificent"

"Mary!" Francis O'Connor called from the back of the hall. "We're ready!"

"I'm going to walk them down to the streetcar," Mary said to Gilbert. "But I'll see you in the morning?"

"Seven?"

She nodded, then went to join her family. Gilbert watched them go, then put on his hat and went home alone.

* * *

*During the early months of the Boston smallpox epidemic of 1901-2, the Board of Health's volunteer-run clinics provided free, voluntary vaccinations. By January of 1902, the Massachusetts legislature made vaccination compulsory and began sending out vaccination squads that went door-to-door, sometimes compelling vaccination through physical force. Refusal to comply was punishable by a $5 fine or two weeks in jail. The epidemic led to several court cases over whether a the government could force people to be vaccinated against their will. For example, see _Jacobson v. Massachusetts_ , a case that went all the way to the US Supreme Court. The Court ruled that states could not require vaccination as a general rule, but could mandate specific vaccinations to safeguard public health during epidemics. I can't put a link here, but you can look up an article called, "The Last Smallpox Epidemic in Boston and the Vaccination Controversy, 1901-1903" in the _New England Journal of Medicine_ , February 1, 2001.


	51. Chapter 18: A Change of Plans

Chapter 18: A Change of Plans

* * *

By December, Boston's volunteer-run clinics had vaccinated 400,000 of the city's 560,000 residents against smallpox. The epidemic wasn't over; disease would continue to erupt in pockets across Boston for many months. But a crisis that might have taken tens of thousands of lives in an earlier era resulted in only 270 deaths. St. James the Greater lost not a single congregant.

On December 10, 1901, Patrick Collins defeated Thomas Norton Hart in Boston's mayoral election, drawing over 60% of the vote.

* * *

It was a jubilant Advent season at St. James the Greater. Monsignor McQuaid prayed with a glad heart; congregants congratulated one another; Dr. Mary and Dr. Blythe were both in notably good humor.

On the Sunday after the election, Gilbert's last patient was old Mrs. Laughlin, whose arthritis had twisted her fingers into painful rigidity. Gilbert massaged her hands, speaking softly, as he had once seen his Uncle Dave do. He called Mrs. Laughlin's young granddaughter over to observe, then sent the pair away with a jar of menthol ointment and instructions to repeat the massage twice every day.

His work finished, Gilbert peeked around the screen where Mary was still treating her final patient. A girl of seven or eight sat on her examination table, gesturing dramatically as she told a rambling story. The red, peeling burn on her forearm was large, but not serious, and the child did not seem to be in much pain. If she were, her ceaseless chatter covered her discomfort. Between her gesticulations and the swinging of her stick-straight brown braids, Mary was having some difficulty bandaging her injury.

"Peggy, will you please sit still for just a moment?" Mary sighed.

Gilbert stepped forward and wordlessly took the child's outstretched hand in his own, steadying her.

". . . and I'm gonna sing in the children's choir at the Christmas concert on Friday night. My Da said that I can have new ribbons for my hair, one red and one green. Won't that be pretty? I get to stand in the front row because I'm so small, so I have to be real careful and stand up straight and not spill nothing on my robe. Say, Dr. Mary, are you gonna sing at the Christmas concert again this year?"

Mary seemed to be focused on her task with somewhat more intensity than a simple bandage should warrant. "Yes, I told Monsignor McQuaid I would," she said through her teeth.

"Oh, good! You sang so pretty last year. After you sang, my Ma was crying and I asked if she was hurt and she said no that it just makes her cry to hear the Irish the way you sing it. I heard Ma tell Mrs. Walsh that you're as good a singer as your granny was."*

Mary remained silent, lowering her head to her task and coincidentally obscuring her face.

Gilbert smirked, sensing her discomfort. "Why Dr. Mary, I didn't know that you spoke Irish."

"I don't," came the tight reply. "Only an endearment or two from my grandmother. And a few curses . . ."

"Oh, but she sings it bully," said Peggy, swinging her legs. "Will you come to the concert, Dr. Blythe?"

Gilbert smiled at the child. "I'm sorry, Peggy, but I won't be here. I'm going home to visit my family for Christmas."

"Is your family still in Ireland, then?"

"No, Peggy," said Mary, her voice dripping sugar. "Dr. Blythe is _English_."

Peggy gasped and jumped, dislodging the edge of her bandage.

" _English_?" Gilbert cried with mock asperity. "Indeed not. Well, perhaps many generations back, though I think the Blythes are mostly Scots. But there's no need to fear, Peggy. My family lives in Canada."

Peggy's curiosity was piqued. "Are there bears there?"

"In Canada? Yes, although . . ."

"Great big white polar bears with razor-sharp teeth? Or giant grizzlies as tall as a tree?"

 _Plenty of them._

"Elsewhere in Canada, yes," Gilbert replied aloud. "But not where I'm going. My parents live on an island in the sea called Prince Edward Island."

"Does your wife live there, too?"

The question brought Gilbert up short, but he managed a reply and a grimace for the child's sake. "No, I'm not married."

"You should get married, Dr. Blythe," Peggy chirped. "You're awful handsome. I heard Nellie Sheehan's big sister tell Fiona Cavanaugh's big sister that you . . ."

"That's enough for now, Miss Peggy," Mary announced, seizing the little girl under the arms and swinging her down from the examination table. "Your bandage is done. Run along."

Peggy grinned up at her. "Thanks a heap, Dr. Mary! Will you wave to me at the concert?"

Mary knelt down and held out a lemon drop to the child. "I will, but you must make me a promise. No more daydreaming when you are tending a boiling kettle. Do you understand?"

Peggy hugged her agreement and skipped off to find her mother.

* * *

That night, Gilbert wrote a hasty letter to his parents.

 _15 December 1901_

 _Dear Mother and Dad,_

 _I have had a slight change of plans. I will still be home for Christmas, but I'll be arriving at Carmody on the Sunday evening train, instead of the Saturday . . ._

* * *

*Monsignor William McQuaid was a strong proponent of the movement to revive the teaching and speaking of the Irish language in Boston during the early years of the 20th century. The Boston Irish community supported language acquisition through institutions like the Boston Gaelic School and cultural events that featured singing and recitation in Irish. The Boston Gaelic School met on weekends in a public school building about half a mile from St. James, and offered classes to adults and children.


	52. Chapter 19: The Only Ane I Ere Thocht On

Chapter 19: _The Only Ane I Ere Thocht On_

* * *

On Friday evening at five minutes to eight, Gilbert descended the familiar steps to the basement of St. James the Greater. He paid fifteen cents admission at the door, plus another five for a sprig of holly for his lapel, then slipped into the crowded hall. No examination tables today. Instead, the hall was set with row upon row of chairs, all of them occupied. Latecomers lined the walls and children had wriggled up to seat themselves on the floor before the stage. Gilbert wedged himself into a corner between a pillar and a skimpy fir tree decorated with paper chains. He scanned the crowd for Mary, but could not find her, not even in the front rows reserved for the performers. He did spy Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor, beaming and chattering in their seats with obvious delight. Gilbert was glad to note that Michael O'Connor was nowhere in evidence.

Soon, the electric lights went off, leaving the hall in the warmer, undulating light of gas lamps. Monsignor McQuaid stepped onto the stage to offer a welcome and a brief prayer before introducing the children's choir. Gilbert could not repress a smile as the choir shuffled onto the stage, their too-long robes obscuring hands and feet. Peggy was there, in front, her brown braids tied with the promised green and red ribbons. She waved energetically at several people in the crowd before the choirmaster hushed her and began the count.

As the children warbled their way through some haphazardly-timed _Glooooooooooria_ s, Gilbert took in the scene with unbridled appreciation. He had attended many concerts in his life, including several featuring the handsome soprano Christine Stuart. Those had been elegant affairs, attended by men in white bowties and women encrusted with diamonds. The music had been enjoyable enough, if you went in for that sort of thing. Certainly Christine had been very impressive. Stately and poised, her voice raised in a majestic aria; Gilbert could recall with perfect accuracy the self-satisfied smile she wore while collecting her applause.

 _What would Christine think of this audience?_

Gilbert chuckled to himself, knowing the answer full well. At the moment, the noise from the shifting, whispering crowd threatened to drown out the voices of the singers. Babies cried, mothers refereed furtive squabbles, and grandparents nodded along, enraptured by the sight of their little ones on stage.

After the children's choir came a comic recitation, a reenactment of the martyrdom of St. James, and a _tableau vivant_ depicting the nativity. Gilbert was enjoying himself hugely. The hall was stuffy and the performers liable to mishap, but a feeling of good-natured camaraderie sanctified the proceedings. No audience could have applauded more lustily for such meager offerings.

Just when the concert threatened to overstay its welcome, a soloist took the stage. Gilbert knew at once that it was Mary, but had a rather difficult time believing it.

She wore a pomegranate silk gown, cut low and straight across the bodice, with little sleeves of black lace that showed the graceful, rounded lines of her arms. Her dark hair was piled in waves atop her head, pinned back with a gilded circlet. She wore no other jewelry. In the stage lights, her large, dark eyes were black, contrasting so starkly with the pale expanse of her throat that no other adornment was necessary. Gilbert was not the only person in the hall who found his attention toward the proceedings miraculously refreshed.

The restless crowd lapsed into something approaching silence. Someone played a spare, tinkling introduction on the sturdy upright piano and Mary began to sing.

 _A Neansaí, 'mhíle grá, a bhruinnrall 'tá gan smál . . ._

She was good. Very good. Not trained, but her voice was clear without being sunny. There was something complex in Mary's rich alto, a tang of bitterness in the sweetness.

The hall was well and truly silent by the end of the first line, hanging breathlessly on every syllable. Gilbert had no idea what the lyrics might mean, but the mournful melody and Mary's melancholy delivery brought his heart into his throat. It was a song of love and loss, sweet and sad. The long, slow verses were desolate, but it was the soaring sections, when her voice seemed suspended over a great chasm, that kindled a sublime pain in his chest.

He was at another concert, long ago, at the White Sands hotel. Sitting in the back, trying to ignore Josie Pye beside him. He had smiled then, _with appreciation of the whole affair in general and of the effect produced by a slender white form and spiritual face against a background of palms in particular_.* Gilbert closed his eyes and breathed.

Anne had recited "The Maiden's Vow," and Gilbert had struggled to contain the nervous laughter that had threatened to overwhelm him.

 _I've made a vow, I'll keep it true,  
_ _I'll never married be;  
_ _For the only ane that I think on  
_ _Will never think o' me._

Decades ago, but moments only. Strange how poetry came back, in ghostly lines, the old words twisted into grotesque new meanings.

 _For the only ane I ere thocht on  
_ _Lies buried in the sea.**_

Gilbert slowed his breathing, willing himself to calmness during the instrumental interlude. But a moment later, he opened brimming eyes to Mary's gorgeous finale, biting the inside of his cheek for control.

 _Aithris é dá súil, Aithris é dá cúl, Aithris é dá min mhaith chéilli_ . . .

If Gilbert managed to keep his tears in check, he was the only one. Around the hall, faces young and old smiled through streaming eyes, rapt by song or singer or both.

When the final note died away, the hall erupted in raucous applause. Mary bowed. The rapturous expression on her face was not a smile, but a deep, shining-eyed satisfaction. It radiated boundless love for the people before her, and never-ending remembrance of those who were not.

Mary moved to regain her seat, but her audience would have none of it. They cheered and stamped their feet, demanding an encore that she was reluctant to give. Gilbert could not see clearly, with so many people standing now, but he thought he caught a glimpse of Peggy's braids bouncing beside Mary's front-row chair. He joined in the noise, clapping along with the rest until Monsignor McQuaid ushered Mary onstage once more.

Her face was pink and she shook her head at the audience, but she was smiling. At her signal, the crowd settled itself, eager for her next selection.

Without accompaniment, Mary began to sing. This tune was different from the first: sombre, but with an irregular beat and a wild, weird melody that send a chill creeping up Gilbert's spine. He knew without being told that this was an older song, old even to the grandmother who had taught it and to her grandmother before her. Gilbert had never heard anything quite like it. The rest of the audience evidently had, as many of the listeners nodded along and moved their lips to form the ancient words.

 _Táim sínte ar do thuama agus gheobhair ann de shíor mé_ . . .

It was well that Gilbert spoke no Irish. He was able to enjoy the enthusiasm of the crowd, the skill of the singer, and the ominous tune for the little shiver it gave him, without having any inkling of what it said.***

The last verse repeated the first, and many voices joined in. They rose and fell in unison, sharing the heartache of the song as well as their pride in the singing. When it was over, Mary beamed at them all.

 _She's alive_ , thought Gilbert, not quite sure where the thought originated. But it was true; this was Mary O'Connor Parkman as she should have been always: beloved, triumphant, radiant.

 _What would Harvard be like if this incarnation of Mary were welcome there?_

Now Monsignor McQuaid was back onstage announcing that the evening had raised over fifty dollars for the Poor Relief fund; now he was leading them all in singing Silent Night; now the crowd was pressing toward the doors, calling out for wayward children. The room emptied slowly, with little knots of admirers forming around the performers, congratulating them on their success.

Gilbert had meant to slip away once the pressing crowd had thinned, but Mr. O'Connor caught his eye and waved him over.

"Dr. Blythe!"

Gilbert greeted them warmly: "Merry Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor."

"Fancy!" exclaimed Mrs. O'Connor. "We never looked for you! Come to see the singing?"

Gilbert smiled, "I was invited by one of my patients. Do you know Peggy Rourke?"

"Everyone knows Peggy Rourke," Mr. O'Connor laughed. "And if they don't, she'll soon set that to rights!"

"Yes, a delightful child. I found I could not resist her invitation."

"Did you enjoy yourself, Dr. Blythe?" asked Mrs. O'Connor with wary interest.

"Very much, yes," Gilbert nodded. "It's been a long while since I . . ."

"Here's our girl!" Mr. O'Connor interrupted. He gestured broadly, turning Gilbert to face a flushed and rather bedraggled Mary. She had been hugged and kissed by so many admirers that her hair was beginning to come down, falling low over her shoulders. She clutched a spray of carnations the same shade as her dress, one of which was hanging from a broken stem.

Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor moved as one to embrace their daughter, but Mary stood rooted to the spot. She blinked twice, her eyes gone wide.

"Dr. Blythe?"

This close, Gilbert was quite overawed. Mary still radiated the glamour of her performance, and he felt his heart pound away faster than it ought.

"Dr. Parkman. You were wonderful."

She seemed not to hear him.

"Why are you here? I thought you had gone home for Christmas."

"I leave in the morning," he shrugged, feeling suddenly overheated.

They stared at one another for a moment, oblivious to the curious look that passed between Mary's parents.

"Um . . . well . . . I'd best be off. Have to catch the ferry in the morning," Gilbert said, embarrassed to find himself tongue-tied in front of the O'Connors.

"Yes. Goodnight, Dr. Blythe."

"Merry Christmas, Dr. Parkman. Mrs. O'Connor. Mr. O'Connor."

Gilbert bowed himself out of the hall and hastened for the door, ignoring the holiday wishes shouted by half a dozen patients.

It was snowing. The dirty streets of Boston were glazed with a shimmer of beautifying white. Gilbert felt an icy snowflake melt against his burning cheek and turned his face toward the swirling sky.

 _What are you doing, Blythe? What are you doing?_

* * *

* _Anne of Green Gables_ , chapter 33

**Anne recited a poem called "The Maiden's Vow" at the White Sands concert. Since there are a couple of poems by that title that would have been available to her, I chose the one that suited my purposes. These quotations are from "The Maiden's Vow" by Carolina Oliphant, Baroness Nairne (1766-1845). It may not be the best candidate for Anne's actual recitation (it is probably too simple and short to be the piece described), but it is romantic and Scottish, which puts it right in Anne's wheelhouse as far as poetry goes. LMM does reference some of Baroness Nairne's other work in _Rilla of Ingleside_ , so it was at least on her radar.

*** _Táim sínte ar do thuama_ is an Irish poem composed in the 17th century and set to several tunes over the years. One of its English translations is titled, "I Am Stretched on Your Grave." It is probably a good thing that Gilbert didn't catch any of this:

 _I am stretched on your grave  
_ _And I'll lie here forever;  
_ _If your hands were in mine  
_ _I'd be sure we would not sever.  
_ _My apple tree, my brightness,  
_ _It's time we were together  
_ _For I smell of the earth  
_ _And am worn by the weather._

 _When my family think  
_ _That I'm safely in my bed  
_ _From dusk until dawn  
_ _I am stretched out at your head,  
_ _Calling out unto the earth  
_ _With tears hot and wild  
_ _For the loss of the girl  
_ _That I loved as a child._

 _Do you remember the night,  
_ _The night when we were lost  
_ _In the shade of the blackthorn  
_ _And the chill of the frost?  
_ _Oh, thanks be to Jesus  
_ _We did what was right  
_ _And your maidenhead still  
_ _Is your pillar of light._

 _The priests and the friars  
_ _Approach me in dread  
_ _Because I still love you,  
_ _All my life, and you're dead.  
_ _I still will be your shelter  
_ _Through rain and through storm;  
_ _With you in your cold grave,  
_ _I cannot sleep warm._

 _I am stretched on your grave  
_ _And I'll lie here forever;  
_ _If your hands were in mine  
_ _I'd be sure we would not sever.  
_ _My apple tree, my brightness,  
_ _It's time we were together  
_ _For I smell of the earth  
_ _And am worn by the weather._


	53. Chapter 20: Keeping Christmas

Chapter 20: Keeping Christmas

* * *

Gilbert paid a flying visit to the Patterson Street manse on his way to Avonlea, staying just long enough to present Olly Blake with a real, official cowboy hat (purchased from a shopkeeper who had likely never seen a living cow), shake his head at a too-tall Gordon, and assure Phil and Jo that all was well in Boston. He had had a letter from Dean Blanchard at Redmond: Professor Hawlett was retiring and the medical school was organizing a conference in his honor in June. Gilbert was invited to present a paper on his research, and, of course, he would come by for Sunday dinner while he was in town. Just like old times.

* * *

Christmas dinner was much the same as the year before, except that Gilbert and Davy challenged the children — from 14-year-old Fred Wright down to 3-year-old Emily Keith — to a massive snowball fight that left the youngsters exhausted enough to play quietly in the sitting room for the rest of the day.

Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Harrison had outdone themselves, loading the table with geese and ham and a truly overwhelming number of side dishes. Millie Keith's pies exceeded their reputation; Cora's plum pudding was the last word in puddings. Diana contributed several bottles of raspberry cordial, winking mischievously at Gilbert as she poured.

Over tea, Mr. Harrison gave a boisterous impression of Davy trying to move his largest sow to shelter during a rainstorm, succeeding only when a clap of thunder scared the animal into a reckless flight that sent Davy sprawling in the mud. Davy countered with the tale of Mr. Harrison's ill-starred attempt to re-shingle his milking shed, which had resulted in his nailing his own sleeve to the roof, slipping, and requiring rescue. Gilbert laughed until John Blythe had to thump him on the back.

Later, seeing that Dora was occupied in pacing the floor with a fussy Nan, Gilbert helped Minnie May clear a round of dishes. Returning from the kitchen, he spoke quietly to Dora.

"Dora, have you had pudding yet?"

Dora blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes. "No. Nan won't let me put her down."

"Give her here," Gilbert said, reaching for the flaxen-haired toddler.

To Dora's surprise, Nan did not resist this transfer. Grateful for the respite, Dora smiled her thanks and went off to find a chair and a cup of tea.

Gilbert smiled into Nan's round, blue-eyed face and beeped her nose with a long, steady finger. Nan was unsure at first, but gradually relaxed into the game. When she let out a gurgling giggle, Gilbert pretended to drop her, relaxing his arm and catching her an instant later. Nan shrieked with laughter and patted his face. He spun her in a circle and was rewarded with her delight.

The room was thick with chatter and bustle, a dozen conversations flying at once and someone always moving in or out of a seat. Through the confusion, Gilbert chanced to catch Cora watching him, an expression of curiosity on her face.

Gilbert felt inexplicably that he had been discovered in some private moment. But why shouldn't he play with Nan? He was only giving Dora a break. Embarrassed, he shrugged at his mother and turned back to Nan's cries of "More! More!"

* * *

The next morning, Gilbert was pleased to find Lone Willow Farm quiet. Mrs. Barry had mentioned within his hearing that Diana and the children would be coming to Orchard Slope to help put the house back in order, and Gilbert expected that this would be his best opportunity to catch Fred alone.

Sure enough, he found Fred in the barn, speaking softly to the cows.

"Hello, Fred."

"Gil! Didn't expect you today."

"Thought maybe you could use a hand with the chores."

Fred chuckled, scratching one of the cows between the eyes. "That's what children are for. I'm just out here visiting."

"Do cows make good company?" Gilbert asked.

"The best. You can tell them anything and they just go on calm as you please. Puts things in perspective."

"Must be nice."

Fred did not reply. If there was one thing he had learned from talking with cows, it was that people often managed to arrive at what they meant to say if they were given time and space and a sympathetic ear.

After a moment, Gilbert took a deep breath. "Can I ask you something, Fred?"

"Of course."

Gilbert exhaled. "It's only . . . I've been wondering . . . does Diana ever . . . talk about Anne?"

Fred started slightly to hear Anne's name from Gilbert's lips, but he covered well.

"Of course. Nearly every day."

"Really?"

Fred leaned against a stall and crossed his arms. "Sure. She'll mention a poem or a book that Anne loved, or tell Small Anne Cordelia a story about the mischief they used to get into, or say she's taking flowers over to the graveyard. Maybe not every day, but more often than not."

"I've never heard her do it," Gilbert said flatly.

"Not around you, no," Fred conceded.

"Do the two of you have some sort of list of topics to avoid with me?" Gilbert asked, a hint of irritation in his voice.

"I don't know that there was ever anything written down, exactly . . ." Fred replied, swiping a broad hand across the back of his neck.

"Why?"

Fred's face was flushed, but he did not shirk. "We were following your lead. If you didn't mention a particular topic yourself, we didn't either."

"And the main topic I never mentioned was . . ."

". . . Anne."

Gilbert grimaced. "I just . . . couldn't. But I've been wondering lately whether it might help to talk about her more."

"Has she been on your mind lately?"

Gilbert snorted.

"Sorry," said Fred. "Stupid question."

It was not quite warm in the barn, but it was cozy. The soft breath of the cows, the scent of hay, bright and fragrant with the memory of summer, the dim refuge from the piercing dazzle of sun on snow.

"You can always talk about her with me," Fred offered. "Or not, if you aren't ready. But it might be a relief to talk about her with someone who cares."

"Thanks, Fred," Gilbert said. "Maybe not right now. But sometime."

"Is that . . . it?" Fred asked, trying to read the expression on Gilbert's face and failing utterly.

"For now."

"Are you sure?"

Gilbert did not answer, scuffing his boot in the hay dust on the barn floor.

"Things going alright in Boston?"

"Fine. Same as always."

"Really?" Fred asked. "I would have thought something had changed."

Gilbert stopped his fidgeting. "What makes you say that?"

"You. You're . . . I don't know. Different. Or maybe the same, but like I haven't seen you in a while. You looked like you were enjoying yourself yesterday."

"I've always enjoyed Christmas," Gilbert shrugged.

"Have you?" Fred asked. "Well, you certainly seemed to be in the spirit this year. I don't remember much in the way of snowball fights or baby-bouncing in the recent past."

Gilbert exhaled. "So keeping Christmas means something's wrong with me?"

"I didn't say _wrong_. I said _different_."

"I'm fine, Fred."

Fred peered at his friend, trying to decide whether to give voice to his hunch.

"Gil?" he asked cautiously, "Did you . . . meet someone?"

"What? No!" Gilbert shook his head vigorously. "No, no. Nothing like that. No."

Fred scrutinized his face, unconvinced that his flush had anything to do with a brisk walk on a cold morning.

"If you say so."

Gilbert snorted. "Go back to your cows, Fred. They have as much to tell as I do."

"You know we'll always be right here if you need to talk," Fred said. "Or you could write. Cows don't get much mail."

"Thanks, Fred. But I really don't have anything to say at the moment."

* * *

On the last evening of the old year, Cora Blythe sat at her kitchen table with a cup of tea, waiting for Gilbert to return from the graveyard. It was still early, but John was already in bed, exhausted from a week of festive visiting. He had wanted to wait with Cora, but she had given him a stern look; he was too tired to resist.

It was full dark when Gilbert arrived, stomping his boots on the porch and shaking snow from his winter wraps. Cora rose from her seat and ladled out a bowl of steaming soup, cut a slice of bread, poured another cup of tea. She was back in her chair before he opened the door.

"Thanks," Gilbert said, dropping into a chair and digging into the hot food. His nose and cheeks were red and wind-blasted, his ears pink despite the cap he had worn.

"You stayed out a long time in this weather," Cora said, not quite scolding.

Gilbert shrugged and sipped his soup. "I don't go often."

He did not elaborate; Cora had not expected him to. There was little enough to say about that sort of visit, and less other people could understand. It was enough for her to watch her son eat, to see his normal, healthy color return to his face.

When Gilbert moved on to tea, Cora slid a plate of jam tarts across the table toward him.

"I had an interesting talk with your father a few weeks ago," she said.

"About?"

"Boston."

"Ah," Gilbert pulled a tight smile. "That talk. He finally cornered you?"

Cora chuckled, "I finally let him get it off his chest. It was bothering him."

"He just wants to make sure you're taken care of."

"I know."

"You'll always be welcome wherever I am," Gilbert said earnestly. "I hope you and Dad have many more years together, but my home is your home."

Cora smiled, but she did not need this reassurance. That Gilbert would fulfill his obligations was a truth so obvious it didn't need to be stated. What she needed were answers to questions she couldn't ask directly.

"Would you ever consider moving back to Avonlea?" she asked in a casual tone.

Gilbert hesitated a moment, though not, she suspected, out of indecision. "No," he replied. "I can't."

"What about Kingsport, then? Charlottetown?"

"No . . ." he said slowly. "I think I need to be in Boston."

"Harvard must be a very good job."

Gilbert pressed his lips together, but nodded. "Yes. It is. I . . . don't think I could leave it now."

Cora sipped her own tea. "In that case, I don't mind coming to Boston, should the occasion arise. Though I would make one request of you."

"Anything."

"When I die, bring me back to Avonlea. Bury me beside your father."

Gilbert neither spoke nor nodded. For a long minute, he sat, staring into his tea, not meeting Cora's eye.

"Can I ask you something?" he mumbled at last.

"Of course, dear."

"Why is Marilla buried next to Matthew?"

Cora sighed. "Because she asked it of me. The last time I visited, I asked if there was anything I could do for her, and she asked that I bury her next to Matthew."

"To leave space for me?"

Cora paused for a heartbeat, but answered. "Yes, I believe that was her intention."

Gilbert exhaled. "You know, I'm beginning to think Marilla didn't have much faith in me. A house to hide in if I flunked out of med school; a grave all nice and ready whenever I wanted it . . ."

Cora managed a smile. "People show their love in different ways, dear. She'd be very proud of you."

"I suppose I appreciate the gesture, even if it is a bit morbid."

"You don't want it?" Cora asked, observing closely.

"I didn't say that."

Cora sensed an opportunity and took it. "Is there somewhere else you'd rather be buried?"

"No."

"Do you think that might ever change?"

Gilbert sipped his tea, swallowed, did not answer right away. "Probably not."

Cora reached across the table and took his hand. "I hope it does."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **A special thank you to Beau2809, who explained to me that it was Marilla (not Cora or Diana) who arranged her own burial as another gesture of love toward Gilbert. Thank you for that insight, Beau2809 — I agree, and I wrote Cora's scene here for you :)**

 **Thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing! I have been excited about posting that concert chapter for weeks now and relished all your reactions. I'm so glad to hear that many of you had strong feelings about it, whether you enjoyed it or decided that things were getting too real with "Marbert" (thanks for that, Catiegirl).**

 **Now is probably a good time to say that "The Sun and the Other Stars" will have 33 chapters and an epilogue.**


	54. Chapter 21: Living Without

Chapter 21: Living Without

* * *

On Gilbert's first day back at work, Mary went home promptly at five o'clock. On the second day, she left at five again. On the third day, she went to lunch and never returned.

By Saturday morning, Gilbert's nerves were ashambles. He sat at his workbench, spinning a pencil disconsolately through his fingers, re-living all the very stupidest things he had ever done in his life. He had run through the "Carrots" incident and the proposal in the orchard at Patty's Place and was just about to go over the recent Christmas concert for the fourth time when he heard a soft sound at the door.

"Dr. Parkman!" he exclaimed, standing so quickly that the stool teetered. He grabbed it, narrowly preventing it from falling over. "Dr. Parkman," he said more calmly. "I didn't expect you today."

Mary shut the door softly behind her. She shrugged off her coat and hung her hat on a peg on the wall, then crossed the room and sat in her chair before Gilbert's desk.

"I wasn't going to come today," she said softly, "but I didn't want you to worry."

"Worry?" Gilbert asked unconvincingly.

"I know I have been acting strangely this week and I just wanted to reassure you that everything is fine."

"Is it?"

"Yes," Mary replied, flexing her hand. "It's only . . . this is always a difficult week for me. It's . . . their anniversaries. Henry. And Elsie. And James."*

Gilbert felt a volatile mixture of relief, horror, and self-rebuke.

 _This has nothing to do with you, idiot._

"I'm very sorry, Mary," he said. "You don't need to be here. Go home and rest. Take all the time you need."

She did not leave, but relaxed in her chair as if she meant to stay.

"It's hitting me hard this year," she whispered.

"Because of the smallpox?" Gilbert asked.

"Maybe. But also, it's . . . never mind. It's stupid."

"I'm sure it isn't."

"It's only that it's not just an anniversary this year. I met Henry at a New Year's dance. We had seven years, and now it's been seven. It's hard to realize that I've been mourning him longer than I actually knew him."

Gilbert sat down across the desk from her. "I remember that one. You prepare yourself for the obvious anniversaries. Birthdays. Deathdays. Days that meant something to you. But some of them sneak up on you. I was at Netley the day I counted up years. It was . . . not a good day."

"No."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked, knowing that there wasn't.

Mary surprised him. "Make me a cup of tea?"

* * *

Mary did not offer any further reflections on her grief and Gilbert did not press her. They sat quietly, sipping their tea as Gilbert pummeled his brain for neutral topics of conversation.

"I've been invited to a medical conference in Kingsport in June," he said at last. "An old professor of mine is retiring and Redmond is organizing the event in his honor. Dean Blanchard said they're inviting bacteriologists and researchers from all over Canada and the United States. They want me to present something related to the work we do here."

"Do you know what you want to present?" Mary asked, letting the steam from her cup caress her face.

"No," Gilbert sighed. "I've been going over the data all week. I don't think we've had any breakthroughs worth crowing about."

"What about the nitric acid treatment?" Mary inquired. "That did well in both the first trial and the second."

"Perhaps," Gilbert said. "I'd want to put it through at least another two rounds before counting it a success, though."

"Or maybe . . ."

Mary's next suggestion was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Gilbert went to answer, wondering who could possibly be in the building on a Saturday afternoon. He opened the door and was shocked by the sight of the distraught woman wringing her hands on the threshold. Fair hair escaped from her winter hat and her skin was paper white under her freckles.

"Mrs. Hawkins?"

When she seemed unable to reply, Gilbert reached for her elbow and steered her toward a chair. Mary rose to her feet, surveying the scene with wary curiosity.

"Mrs. Hawkins?" Gilbert tried again. "Charlotta? What's wrong?"

Charlotta Hawkins found her tongue and whimpered, "Dr. Blythe, sir, forgive me for coming here. I went to your house and your housekeeper said you wasn't home, and I begged her until she told me you must be here and then I came as quick a wink and . . ."

Gilbert turned to Mary. "Dr. Parkman? Could you get a cup of tea for Mrs. Hawkins?"

Mary, whose eyebrows had relocated to the vicinity of her hairline, complied. She handed a steaming cup to Gilbert, who held it out to the trembling Charlotta. With an effort, Charlotta took a sip and relaxed infinitesimally.

"There, now," Gilbert said. "What is the matter?"

"It's . . . it's my Anne," Charlotta moaned. "It's the smallpox!"

"Charlotta!" Gilbert was genuinely astonished. "Didn't you have your family vaccinated?"

"Yes! Of course I did! The rest are alright, but I guess hers didn't take. And Anne . . ."

"Is she still at your house?" Gilbert asked.

"Yes."

"And the rest of your children?"

"I sent them to the neighbors. But oh, Dr. Blythe, sir, I don't know what to do!"

Gilbert was already reaching for his coat. "I'll come with you, Charlotta. I just need to go home to get my bag, and then we'll go see what we can do for her."

"Oh, thank you, Dr. Blythe, sir. I knew you would help."

Gilbert turned to Mary, who was regarding him quizzically. He ran a hand through his hair. "Dr. Parkman, excuse me. Mrs. Hawkins is an old friend from Avonlea. Anne is her daughter. I must see what I can do."

Mary examined him closely, as if attempting to decode the jumbled expression in his hazel eyes.

"Dr. Blythe? Do you . . . want me to come with you?"

An image flashed through Gilbert's mind. A small, white form, sunk in damp sheets, breath rattling feebly in her chest.

"Yes," he breathed. "Please come with me."

* * *

The trio hurried through the January slush toward Gilbert's house on Marlborough Street. While Gilbert dashed inside for his medical bag, Mary hailed a cab.

" _That's_ your house?" Mary asked dubiously, squashed close to Gilbert on the seat of a cab meant for only two passengers.

Gilbert attempted to shrug. "I rent it. Dean Hilliard set it up when I was still in England . . ."

"I'm going to let you start buying more of the supplies for the clinic," she muttered.

The cab rumbled over the cobblestone streets, splashing through frigid puddles of sludge and slipping over patches of ice. It was nearly four miles to Savin Hill, every inch of it a jolting, jostling ride. Gilbert tried to keep himself from lurching into either Charlotta on his right or Mary on his left, but it was impossible. What's more, he found that he was intensely aware of Mary's shoulder against his, her skirt tangled around his leg.

When they finally halted on a block of triple-decker houses, Gilbert relaxed ever so slightly. Then he remembered why they were there and felt his stomach plummet.

Charlotta led them up the stairs to the third floor landing. As she fumbled in her handbag for the key, Gilbert attempted to compose himself, pressing a hand to his waistcoat pocket. He did not succeed entirely; when Mary looked up at him, she was startled by his pallor. Wordlessly, she slipped her hand into his and squeezed.

Gilbert recalled his old routine from the days when he had visited Phil's sickbed at the Patterson Street manse, how he had recounted the mundane details of the situation to assure himself of their reality and thereby tether himself to the concrete world. It seemed futile in this case. The facts — that Mary Parkman was holding his hand on the landing of Charlotta the Fourth's apartment as he prepared to treat Charlotta's daughter Anne for smallpox — were sufficiently surreal that he doubted they would provide much of an anchor. There was nothing to do but leap.

* * *

Anne Hawkins did indeed have smallpox. Nevertheless, Gilbert let out a breath of unadulterated relief the moment he saw her. She was sitting up in bed, her eyes alert, her freckled face and chest dotted with a bare handful of tiny white pustules. Gilbert took her temperature and her pulse and listened to her lungs, but this was more for Charlotta's benefit than anything.

"Why, there's nothing the matter with _you_ , young lady," Gilbert pronounced comfortably.**

Anne regarded him skeptically. "Ma said it was the smallpox," she croaked.

"Oh, yes, she's correct," Gilbert confirmed, smiling. "But see here. You have only a few pustules — I can't find more than two dozen. They're light and distinct, not running together. I'm sure they itch horribly, and we'll get you an ointment for that. But you're in very good shape. Your lungs are clear. Your fever is slight. You may be miserable a few days yet, but I'd say the rash will begin to scab over in a week, and you'll be well by the end of the month."

Charlotta covered her mouth with her hand and began to cry.

Gilbert placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's alright, Charlotta. She's going to be fine. It's a very light case. The vaccine must have given her partial protection. She needs fluids and rest and a bit of calamine lotion."

Charlotta nodded, tears streaming down her face, and went to embrace her daughter.

* * *

An hour later, Gilbert and Mary were in another cab, this time with room to leave a comfortable distance between them. Both were stuffed to bursting with all the delicacies that Charlotta Hawkins' pantry could supply. Gilbert leaned his head back against the seat and breathed deeply.

"I'm glad she's not seriously ill," Mary said.

"Me, too."

"Gilbert . . . is Anne Hawkins named for your Anne?"

"Yes," he murmured. "Though I didn't know she existed until I met Mrs. Hawkins by chance on a streetcar last year. Charlotta moved away from Avonlea before Anne and I went to college."

"Mrs. Hawkins must have been very young when she knew you and Anne."

"Yes. She can't have been more than fifteen when she left."

"Anne must have made quite an impression on her."

Gilbert smirked. "She did. Charlotta lived at a strange little house called Echo Lodge with Lavendar Lewis, an old maid who was a particular friend of Anne's. Anne . . . well, I say this with all due affection, but Anne had a habit of matchmaking. She was very good at it — there are several happy couples who are very glad that she meddled as she did. And she did meddle. One of her successes was getting Lavendar Lewis to marry an old beau, Stephen Irving, whose son was a pupil of Anne's at the Avonlea school. Charlotta adored her."

Mary smiled. "Well, I'm glad her daughter isn't in much danger. Will you go back to check on her?"

"Yes, I promised Charlotta I'd return tomorrow after the clinic, and I'll probably call again through the week until it's certain she's on the mend." Suddenly Gilbert perked up. "And I'll have to write home. I never have anything interesting to tell Diana, but she knew Charlotta better than I did. She'll be much more interested in this than anything else I ever write her."

"Diana?"

"Oh. Diana was Anne's best friend. She's married to Fred Wright, my best friend. We keep up a correspondence. Or, rather, Diana does, and I mostly just apologize for not writing more often."

Mary turned toward Gilbert and tucked her knees up on the seat of the cab. "Tell me more about Avonlea."

Gilbert looked over at her and smiled. "I hardly know where to begin."

* * *

"So, let me see if I have this straight," Mary said. "Dora is Davy's twin sister. They're distant relatives of Marilla's and she took them in after their mother died. And when she died, Dora went to live with the Barrys — they're Diana's parents. And now Dora is married to Ralph Andrews, whose sister was a good friend of Anne's?"

Gilbert laughed. "That's really remarkably good. You could go to an Avonlea Ladies' Aid meeting right now and keep up with all the gossip."

They were sitting in a coffee shop near the Public Garden. Half an hour in the cab had proved insufficient to contain their conversation, so Mary had suggested that they continue it at the café near her boarding house.

"You don't have to drink coffee," she assured Gilbert. "I'm sure they can scare up some stale old tea for you."

A single conversation could not possibly cover all the convoluted relationships Gilbert was struggling to explain, but Mary had picked up the essentials.

"It seems that you must be related to half the town," Mary said.

Gilbert paused. "No, actually. It's funny — I grew up in a very small family. I had a sister once, but she died as a young child. I have an aunt and an uncle in Avonlea, but my other relatives all lived far away. I had friends, of course, but it was just me and Mother and Dad at home. This whole big family — Anne made it. She was an orphan, but she drew people to her. And after she died, somehow, they . . . stayed together. Even got closer."

"They all loved her?"

"Yes. And . . . well, I suspect it was a bit of a job, taking care of me. After. And Davy and Dora, too."

"I see." Mary took a sip of her coffee. "You haven't told me how you fell in love with Anne. Is there a story? How did it start?"

A slow smile spread across Gilbert's face. "I was thirteen; she was eleven."

" _Eleven?_ Surely not."

"It sounds ridiculous, but it's true. I didn't realize that it was love until a few years later, but looking back, I know I loved her from the day I met her."

"And how does one fall in love with an eleven-year-old?" Mary rested her chin on her hand, settling in for the tale.

"Well, first, it helps to be thirteen and very stupid. The thing you must understand is that Anne had red hair. Not just auburn or strawberry blonde. Red. The reddest you ever saw. On the first day we were in school together, I was desperate to get her attention and she wouldn't even look at me. So I pulled her hair. And called her _Carrots_."

Mary gasped. "Oh, Gilbert, you didn't!"

"I'm afraid so."

"And what did she do?"

"She stood up and cracked me over the head with her slate."

Mary dissolved into helpless laughter. When she regained breath, she gasped, "I like her already!"

"I did, too."

"Did you apologize?"

"I tried to. But she wouldn't speak to me. For five years."

"Better and better," Mary giggled.

"I did everything I could think of to win her forgiveness. I even saved her from drowning!"

"And that didn't do the trick?"

"No."

"What did?"

"Years later, Anne won a scholarship to go to Redmond. I was eaten alive with jealousy; I wanted to go, too, but I had to teach for a few years to save for tuition. But then Matthew died suddenly. And Marilla was ill, so Anne decided to stay home and teach and care for her instead of going to college. I wanted to help, so I gave up the Avonlea school for her. So she could be closer to home."

Mary smiled. "And she finally forgave you?"

"Yes. _And all heaven opened before me_."***

They sat in silence for a moment, each tracing memories still too dear to be spoken.

"You come from a large family, don't you?" Gilbert asked eventually.

"Yes. You've met my brothers. I have seventeen nieces and nephews so far. Shall I run you through their names?"

Gilbert winced at the bitterness of his coffee. "I think Michael's really the only one I need to remember and I'm not likely to forget him."

"Oh?" Mary said, suddenly wary. "Why's that?"

"I met him at the vaccination clinic. He . . . made an impression."

"What did he say to you?" Mary asked, suspicious.

"Nothing," Gilbert said. "Just wanted to make sure you were . . . protected."

Mary snorted. "Oh, Michael. Don't mind him. I haven't needed his protection since I was about five, but he tends to forget that."

"Maybe it's just his way of showing he cares."

"Michael tends to think that protecting me means making decisions for me," Mary said sourly. "I'd rather be treated like an adult capable of making my own decisions, thank you."

"What about Henry's family?" Gilbert asked, hoping to steer away from Michael-adjacent topics. "Do you still see them?"

"No," Mary said crisply. "We are not on speaking terms."

"They don't like you? Or you don't like them?"

Mary set down her cup. "Have you ever encountered the name _Parkman_ elsewhere in this city? On a building, perhaps?"

Gilbert grimaced. "More Lowells?"

Mary nodded. "Cousins, at least. All those old Protestant families have been marrying one another for generations. Lowells. Cabots. Appletons. Eliots."

"And Parkmans?"

"Yes. People call them the Brahmins. They run this city. And Harvard."

Gilbert frowned. "I take it that the Parkmans were not overjoyed to meet Mary O'Connor?"

"There was some shouting," Mary shrugged, taking up her coffee again.

"But Henry stood by you?" Gilbert asked, interested in the story for its own sake.

Mary smiled. "Oh, yes. The shouting was mostly him."

"What did his parents do?"

"They threatened to disinherit him if he married me," Mary replied, her smile widening. "So he said that was fine with him — he wouldn't marry me and we'd just live together in open scandal."

Gilbert laughed. So did Mary.

"And that reconciled them?" he asked.

"To a degree. They're clannish, all those families. And proud. I don't know what on earth they expected from Henry. They spoiled him rotten for twenty-five years and then acted like it was a shock when he insisted on getting exactly what he wanted. If he wouldn't take _no_ for an answer from me, he certainly wasn't going to take it from them."

"You refused him?" Gilbert asked.

"Many times," Mary replied, grinning into her cup.

Gilbert leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Many times? How many?"

"I lost count," Mary shrugged. "There was a time when he was proposing once a day . . ."

"Once a day?" Gilbert snorted. "And he wasn't discouraged?"

"Well, I didn't throw him over. I only refused to marry him."

Gilbert chuckled. "It must have worked eventually."

Mary shook her head. "No, actually."

"No?"

"I finally told him to stop asking and give me some time. He did. He stayed away for months. And when I was ready, I found him."

" _You_ proposed?" Gilbert was vastly entertained.

"I merely said yes to one of his many proposals," Mary sniffed.

"What was holding you back?"

Mary's smile drooped, her voice dropping to quieter tones. "I wanted to be a doctor. I couldn't have both."

Gilbert nodded, seeing the difficulty. He remembered a day in the midst of the typhoid, when he had bargained for Anne's life, thinking he would give up medical school to stay by her side, if only she would recover. But he had never really had to make that choice: first because he could have had everything, then because he had nothing to lose.

"What decided you in the end?" he asked gently.

Mary met his eye, not quite concealing the tears she held so carefully in check. "I merely asked myself which I couldn't live without."

* * *

*Henry, Elsie, and James died of diphtheria in the first week of January, 1895. Although diphtheria antitoxin had been developed in labs in France and Germany in the late 1880s, it was not immediately available for wide distribution. The first North American patients treated with diphtheria antitoxin were given the serum by physicians who had made research trips to Europe and brought small quantities of antitoxin back as samples in October of 1894. The New York City Board of Health began manufacturing diphtheria antitoxin to combat an epidemic in the winter of 1894-5; the first doses were available in New York on January 1, 1895.

** _Anne of Ingleside_ , chapter 19

*** _Anne's House of Dreams_ , chapter 3


	55. Chapter 22: Invitations

Chapter 22: Invitations

* * *

One unseasonably warm Saturday in March, Gilbert proposed an alternative to tea.

"Let's go for a walk," he said, carefully casual.

Mary looked up from the ledger she was annotating with a skeptical moue. "A walk?"

"A walk. You're familiar with the concept?"

"Why?"

"Because it's the first day that smells like spring," Gilbert replied. "It's not easy to tell around here, but the air was definitely fresher this morning."

"Where, exactly, do you want to go?" Mary asked, squinting.

"Outside."

Gilbert tossed Mary's hat onto her workbench, disturbing her papers and earning himself a scowl. Nevertheless, she marked her place in the ledger and went to fetch her coat.

* * *

As they passed through the gates of the Public Garden, Gilbert offered Mary his arm. She hesitated a moment, but eventually rested her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow.

They walked up, down, and around, following the aimless paths amid the still-barren plantings.

"Does this satisfy your craving for springtime?" Mary asked, eyeing the ochre bramble of a leafless forsythia hedge.

"Hardly," Gilbert replied. "But it's the best Boston has to offer."

"No, it isn't," Mary countered. "Haven't you been to Franklin Park down in Dorchester? Or the Arboretum?"

"I haven't," Gilbert said, surprised.

"Wait a few weeks. When the daffodils are up, you can go lose yourself in the Arboretum for a day."

"You'll have to show me where it is."

"Perhaps I will."

They walked in silence for a while, circling the pond where ducks paddled and dived.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that medical conference in Kingsport," Gilbert said at last. "I think I know what I want to present."

"Really? What?"

"Well, I went over the data again and again, looking for something noteworthy. I was getting frustrated, worried that none of our experiments have been clear triumphs over Dr. Wright's methods. And then it hit me."

Gilbert paused for effect, waiting for Mary to engage.

She sighed. "What?"

"The data."

"What about it?"

"The data itself. That's the best thing this lab has produced. I could see just where we had succeeded and where we had failed, but only because of your system. That's what we should be sharing with other researchers — your statistics project!"

Mary had stopped in the middle of the path, forcing Gilbert to pause at her side.

"You want to present my data system at a conference?"

"No," Gilbert replied. "I want _you_ to present your data system at a conference."

"No."

Gilbert had expected some resistance and was undeterred. "Yes. You know how important statistical analysis is to this work. Plenty of researchers are still following Dr. Wright straight over the edge of a cliff. Your work could set a new standard in the field."

Mary withdrew her hand from Gilbert's arm and crossed her own arms over her chest. "Perhaps. But it's not me who has been invited to give a paper. You have. _You_ should present it."

Gilbert compressed his lips, half irritated, half determined. "Maybe I will. But I'll need you to come with me. The attendees are bound to have questions you can answer better than I can. And I'll need your help preparing the presentation."

"You want me to come to Kingsport with you?" Mary seemed genuinely surprised.

"Yes. The conference is in June. There's plenty of time to prepare."

She looked him up and down in a way that made Gilbert feel suddenly self-conscious. What was wrong with her? Why wasn't she more eager to share her work with their colleagues?

"To Kingsport?"

"That is indeed the location of the conference."

They had not been walking very briskly, but a pink flush had arisen in Mary's cheeks nevertheless. "I'll think about it," she said quietly.

Gilbert offered his arm again and they continued their perambulation among the dormant buds of the Public Garden. Lost in thought, neither noticed Dr. Lowell sitting on a bench near the pond, watching them.

* * *

 _15 April 1902_

 _Dear Gilbert,_

 _YES! Of course you can come to see us when you are in Kingsport for your conference! I'd like to see you try to stay away. We've missed you so, honey._

 _It really is lucky that you're coming in June. I meant to write to you as soon as I had news to tell and now I do! Jo has been called to a new church in a little fishing village on the Eastern Shore. It's a bit out of the way, but Jo feels it is his duty to work among people who need him and I quite agree. We've been so happy here on Patterson Street, but the church is thriving — Jo says that another minister can take it over and keep it going just as well as he can — so we are off to new adventures! I always did enjoy a challenge and we're looking forward to this one. We aren't meant to go until August, though, so we will still be in the manse when you visit.*_

 _Of course, you'd be welcome to visit us in our new home as well. It isn't REALLY the ends of the earth, despite what Mother has been muttering._

 _The boys have been talking of nothing but your visit since you wrote. Gordon turns thirteen next month and I can hardly believe it. Can you imagine? ME, mother to such a grownupish person? In another year he'll be off to Kingsport Academy. I can scarcely realize that I only have one year left to have him by me, but so wags the world away! He's such a good, honest, sturdy lad — he's just exactly like Jo, only much better looking. Despite your dire warnings, he seems to have used up all his troublemaking before he was born._

 _Olly on the other hand . . . you never saw such a genius for mischief. No, not even excluding yourself._

 _I'll want to hear all about Boston, of course. I worry about you there, all alone. But we will try to fill you up with good company while you are here._

 _With all my love,_

 _Phil_

 _P.S. Of course, you are welcome to bring your colleague, Dr. Parkman, with you on your visit. Does he have any favorite foods? Or anything I should avoid? Believe it or not, I know enough recipes now that I can pick and choose among them to suit company. P.B._

* * *

Gilbert folded his heavy winter dressing gown and went to stash it on an out-of-the-way shelf in the wardrobe. The weather had turned and he wouldn't need it again for many months.

As he placed it on the second-highest shelf, he came eye-to-eye with the green-and-white hatbox. With a start, he realized that it had been weeks since he had opened it. It couldn't have been a month, could it?

Carefully, Gilbert eased the hatbox off its shelf and carried it to the bed. The lid needed another repair, he noticed.

The common items were on top. Anne's journal. Their photograph from Convocation. The little enamel box with its lock of bright hair.

Gilbert set these aside. He unpacked the much-read letters, the few small mementos, the bundle of Walter and Bertha Shirley's correspondence that Diana had found at Green Gables so long ago. He dug to the bottom of the box, to a layer he had seldom visited.

He had not kept all of the Story Club manuscripts. Diana had wanted some and had insisted on sending a few to Jane Inglis. But Gilbert had several, most of which had been discovered among Anne's papers, and one that had been hidden away among her parents' letters. It had not escaped Gilbert's notice that the hero of that particular story was not quite as brooding or inscrutable as most of the other romantic suitors in the Story Club catalog.

Shuffling through the pages Anne had written as a girl, Gilbert lay back on his pillows and began to read. It was difficult to get through some of them, the words blurring through tears of laughter.

* * *

*In _Anne of Ingleside_ , Christine mentions that Phil and Jo have moved to a "wretched little fishing village where it was an excitement if the pigs broke into the garden."


	56. Chapter 23: Preconceived Ideas

**Author's Note:**

 **Thank you all for your comments these past few chapters (especially to the sharp Guest who remembered Dr. Wright's comments about female scientists — don't worry, Mary hasn't forgotten that either).**

 **Things are going to move along quickly here and it is taking every ounce of self-control I have not to post everything all at once (I have maybe half an ounce of self-control, tops, so stay tuned for a bunch of updates coming your way in these final two weeks).**

 **Thanks so much for telling me when a chapter makes you laugh or cry — I've cried over several of these and it's good to know I was able to convey some of that in prose. I hope there will be a few more laughs amid the tears from here on. See you at the finish line!**

 **-elizasky**

* * *

Chapter 23: Preconceived Ideas

* * *

There were banks of daffodils at the Arboretum, and tulips, and sprays of hyacinth, purple, pink, and white. It was still a park, but a wonderful park, big enough that the sounds and smells of the city were well and truly lost behind stands of trees that were nearly vast enough to constitute a wood.

The Arboretum was, above all, a scientific collection of trees. Specimens of every variety bloomed there in the spring. The familiar scents of apple and cherry blossoms mingled with varieties Gilbert had never encountered before: dogwood and southern magnolia, but also fig and ginkgo and eucalyptus. Most grew in the open, lovingly tended by Harvard's horticultural staff. A few that needed special care — cocoa and mango and pomegranate — lived in greenhouses, nurtured carefully to protect them from winters unknown in their rightful habitations.

One Saturday, Gilbert and Mary left the lab behind. Instead, they sat beneath a willow, files of paperwork resting atop the picnic basket Mrs. Milligan had packed.

Mary scribbled industriously in a notebook she held on her knee. She wore a blue dress, similar in color to her Sunday attire, but more delicate than anything she had ever worn to the St. James clinic. A film of white netting embroidered with blossoms covered the blue silk, cinched at the waist with a wide belt of sapphire velvet. She wore her dark hair twisted into a soft roll atop her head, adorned with a band of blue ribbon.

Gilbert was supposed to be reviewing the notes that Mary had prepared for his conference presentation, but he had to admit that he was not much invested in the work at the moment. The sky was too blue, the grass too soft, the springtime too alluring.

"I've never seen that dress before," he commented, causing Mary to look up from her notes.

"You've only ever seen me at work."

"That's not true," Gilbert replied. "I saw you at the Christmas concert. You looked lovely then, too."

Mary blushed. "I didn't know you were going to be there."

"I'm glad you didn't. I wouldn't have wanted you to change anything on my account."

She did not reply, dropping her gaze back to the notebook in her lap. After a moment, she spoke without looking up. "Have you finished looking over the presentation? Do you have questions?"

Gilbert flipped back to the first page, where he had underlined several sentences and penciled in stars next to troublesome lines.

"Can you clarify this for me?" Gilbert asked, pointing to a section that was both underlined and starred.

Mary leaned forward, peering at the page. "It's about sample size. You can't get an accurate idea of whether a sample is representative if you only take one. You need to analyze many samples, ideally at random, without knowing where they come from or whether they're related to one another."

"Why does it matter if you know where they're from?"

"Bias," Mary said. "You don't want your preconceived ideas about something influencing the measurements up or down."

"Aren't the measurements just the measurements?" Gilbert asked.

"You'd be surprised what people can convince themselves of when they want to."

Gilbert ran a hand through his hair, sending his brown-and-silver curls into disarray. "Mary, I wish you would just give the presentation. It's your work. You've even written the notes for goodness' sake!"

"You know the system just fine, Gilbert," she replied calmly.

"Well enough to use it, sure. But the audience will have questions. They'll want explanations of why you chose one method and not another. I don't know it half as deeply as you do."

Mary pressed her lips together and reached into the first folder atop the hamper. She drew out a conference schedule and presented it to Gilbert.

"What time is your presentation scheduled?" she asked.

"Four o'clock?"

"It's the last presentation of the day," Mary said in a patient voice.

"Yes . . ."

"The attendees will be hungry. Peevish. They'll be looking forward to the suppers they have arranged to catch up with old friends and discuss the papers they've heard."

"Yes . . ."

"And they will stay at the conference one more hour in order to see Dr. Gilbert J. Blythe, formerly of Redmond, currently of Harvard, heir to the legacy of Dr. Almroth E. Wright, M.D., F.R.S."

"Perhaps . . ."

Mary shook her head. "They wouldn't stay to see me. I would address an empty auditorium. If I were lucky, a few dyspeptic professors emerita would show up to the question and answer session with fourteen-part comments disguised as questions. No one would hear my work. It wouldn't go anywhere and it wouldn't help anyone."

Gilbert opened and shut his mouth, but there was little he could say. She was not wrong.

"Mary . . . it's your work," he said helplessly. "You should present it, not me."

Mary's voice was steady. "The best thing you can do is present the work yourself so that it will be heard. You have to know your audience."

"It isn't fair," Gilbert protested.

"Maybe not. But it's just the way things are."

Gilbert searched her face carefully. "If you could guarantee that people would attend, would you want to give the presentation yourself?"

"I try not to waste my time in pointless speculation," she replied, a trifle sharply. Then, repenting, she breathed deeply. "Let's run through it. You read and I'll interrupt with inconvenient objections."

* * *

When the presentation had been torn apart and put back together and the picnic lunch eaten, Gilbert and Mary strolled together in the afternoon shade.

"I've never been to Kingsport," Mary said. "What's it like?"

Gilbert considered. "Much smaller than Boston. Only about 40,000 people. But similar in some ways. It's an old British colonial city, so it feels similar. And Redmond looms large there, just like the universities here."

"You lived there a long time?"

"Fourteen years, including college and medical school. I still go back for short visits, usually on my way home for Christmas."

"You have friends there?"

"Yes. Jonas and Phil Blake — we've been friends since college. They . . . well, after Anne died, I was . . . a bit of a mess. They took care of me. Jo's a minister, and Phil . . . I never knew my sister Charlotte, so Phil's the closest thing I have to a sibling."

Mary nodded. "Are you going to visit them this trip?"

Gilbert looked down at her. "Of course. I thought I had mentioned it. I'm going over to the manse for Sunday dinner. You're invited too, of course."

"You want me to meet your friends?" Mary asked, her expression inscrutable.

Gilbert shrugged. "Only if you want to. I think you might like them. Unless . . ." a teasing smile curled the corners of his mouth, ". . . I don't know how you'll feel about meeting a woman who's better at math than you are."

Mary raised a skeptical brow.

"Phil's quite a prodigy," Gilbert explained. "Top of every math class at Redmond. Beat me handily, that's for sure."

"Oh, I see. If a woman bested you at something, she must be a bona fide genius."

"Naturally. Luckily, I've had the good fortune to run across quite a few of them in my life."

"And Phil is . . . a minister's wife?" Mary asked delicately.

"Umm . . . yes," Gilbert replied, suddenly embarrassed. He should have anticipated that Mary might have opinions about that.

"Don't worry, Gilbert," Mary said. "I was a top student once. And I chose to become an architect's wife, rather than a doctor. I know that road well enough."

"Henry was an architect? Not a doctor?"

Mary laughed. "Indeed not! _Nothing squishy for me, thanks_." She said it with such a specific cadence and intonation that Gilbert felt he had caught an infinitesimal glimpse of the long-departed Henry.

"Do you know the white stone church on Washington Street?" Mary asked.

Gilbert thought for a moment. "The one with all the arches?"

Mary nodded. "That's one of Henry's."

Gilbert was impressed. "I've admired that church often. It's beautiful."

"It is," Mary agreed.

"Anne was . . . a teacher," Gilbert said quietly.

"Yes, you mentioned that you taught school together."

"No," he corrected her. "I just had a teacher's license. I needed a job — any job — to save for tuition. Anne was _really_ a teacher. And a writer. She was going to be a high school principal while I went to medical school. But she would have had to give it up to get married."

"It's a wretched choice," Mary said, as much to herself as to Gilbert. "Giving up a professional calling to get married. Even giving up your name. You gain some things, but you lose bits of yourself as well."

"Did you ever regret changing your name?" Gilbert asked, genuinely curious.

Mary cleared her throat. "No, not really. It keeps Henry close to me. All these years, every time someone has called me _Dr. Parkman_ has seemed like a tiny acknowledgement. That even though he's gone, we are still linked." She looked up at Gilbert. "Have you ever wondered what it might be like? To carry a piece of Anne in your name? You could be Gilbert Shirley Blythe."

That made him look sharp.

"I . . ." he said, a bit dazzled. "No, the thought never occurred to me."

"Is it unpleasant?"

Gilbert turned the name over in his mind. _Gilbert Shirley Blythe_. _Gilbert Shirley Blythe_.

"I don't know," he said at last. "On the one hand, it might be a comfort. Though only now. It might have been torture in the early years. And . . . it just isn't done. No, I don't know how I'd feel about changing my name."

An ember began to smolder somewhere in Mary's eye. Gilbert did not miss it.

"I'm not defending convention!" he yelped. "I'm just thinking it over."

Mary replied in a tone of cool, detached inquiry that signaled danger ahead. "In Avonlea," she began, "do married women always go by their husbands' names?"

"Of course," Gilbert replied, casting about desperately for a way out of this obvious trap.

"For example, your mother. What do the neighbors call her?"

"Well, the family call her Cora of course, and some of the neighbors are family. But yes, everyone else calls her Mrs. Blythe."

"Sometimes Mrs. John Blythe?"

"Er . . . if they are feeling formal, yes."

"Sometimes Mrs. John?"

Gilbert grimaced. "I don't know that I've ever heard anyone call her that. Though some women are named that way, especially if they are from large families and need to be distinguished from their relations. In Avonlea, Mrs. Harmon Andrews is often called Mrs. Harmon. I never really thought about it before."

"So her husband's name is Harmon and people call her Mrs. Harmon?"

"Yes."

"What is her given name?"

Gilbert pressed his lips together. "Ummm . . . hmmmm . . ."

The flame in Mary's eye indicated that she scented victory. "Do you know Mrs. Harmon well?" she asked sweetly.

"I went to school with her children," Gilbert squirmed. "Prissy was older than me, and Billy about the same age, and Jane was one of Anne's chums. Her youngest is Ralph, Dora's husband."

"You've been to her house?"

"Many times."

"Eaten food she's cooked?"

"Many times."

"What's her name, Gilbert?"

He threw up his free hand. "You've caught me, Mary. I don't know what her name is."

Mary smiled, savoring the hit. "Isn't that terrible? To know a woman only by her relationships, not for herself?"

"I guess I never really thought about it before. Though if it comes right down to it, I'd be perfectly happy not to know Mrs. Harmon at all. I suppose I can see it the way you do. But it could also be beautiful. It shows that two people belong to one another."

Mary glared at him. "If they belong to one another, shouldn't the man change his name as well?"

"It's not a bad idea," Gilbert conceded. "Though I don't think a woman changing her name when she marries subtracts from her achievements. Take Marie Curie, for example."

Mary scowled and Gilbert felt the thrill of scoring his own point. He pressed his little advantage: "If I recall correctly, she was born Maria Skłodowska, wasn't she? But she's a genius by any name."

"It helps her to be perceived as French, and Pierre Curie's name has its own weight," Mary said, shoring up her flank. "I don't know how she feels about it herself, but I admire her strategic acumen."

"You followed convention yourself," Gilbert observed.

Mary retreated slightly. "Yes. And I can't say I'm entirely sorry. It did seem like an expression of love at the time. I suppose I could have gone back to O'Connor in medical school. But . . ."

She broke off, but Gilbert quirked a brow, inviting her to continue.

She sighed. "Like Madam Curie, I wanted to run a lab, not clean one. There were few enough doors open to Mary Parkman, and even fewer to Mary O'Connor."

Gilbert nodded. "I can see how that might have helped."

"It is also ever so slightly possible that it may have annoyed Henry's parents to have me become Dr. Parkman . . ."

Gilbert felt a chuckle bubbling up and did not bother to conceal it. "Who knew that names could be so fraught with meaning?"

"Everything's fraught with meaning, Gilbert."

"I suppose so."

Mary adjusted her hold on his arm, brought her other hand up to rest over it. "I'm looking forward to meeting your Phil. Perhaps we can bat some proofs back and forth."

"I wouldn't get cocky, Dr. Parkman," Gilbert teased. "People have underestimated Phil Blake before and they have not come out of it well."

"Then I suppose we'll just have to team up."

Gilbert laughed. "Heaven help us all, in that case."


	57. Chapter 24: Leap of Faith

Chapter 24: Leap of Faith

* * *

"Come on, Anne. You can do it!" Gilbert was determined not to let her chicken out. "Aren't you the girl who walked the ridgepole of the Barry's kitchen roof?"

"Yes, and broke my ankle," Anne snapped. "Save your breath, Gilbert. I'll just walk down to the ford and cross there."

"Anne, it's a quarter mile to the ford!"

It was, too. They stood on a little bluff above the stream behind Mr. Boulter's back pasture, at a place where the water had cut into the bank, forming a deep gully. Beyond, the stream widened considerably, but it was narrow enough at this point. Prudent people never crossed here, but some daring mischief-maker had tied a pair of ropes to the stoutest limb of an overhanging oak. If you got up a bit of a run, it was possible to swing from one bank to the other, saving the walk to the ford and having a bit of fun in the bargain.

Now, Anne stood in the lush shade of midsummer, her slender arms crossed tightly over her black crepe bodice. Gilbert still hated to see her in black, but reasoned that she wouldn't wear it forever. It had only been a few months since Matthew's death; surely she would put away her mourning when school started.

"Well, suit yourself," Gilbert shrugged, hoping he was striking a note of casual indifference. In one motion, he scooped their loaded picnic basket from the ground, grabbed the rope, and ran for the edge. He swung high over the ravine and landed slightly harder than he had hoped.

"There! Nothing to it!" He grinned back at Anne before tossing her the rope and striding away.

"Gilbert Blythe! Where are you going with that basket?"

"You'll never know, Anne. Enjoy your walk to the ford!" He saluted, but did not turn, continuing resolutely onward.

 _Please let her follow me._

Moments later, Gilbert heard a thump on the bank behind him and grinned to himself. He expected to find Anne in a heap on the bank, but when he turned around, he nearly collided with her. She must have landed on her feet because she was rushing forward at a strong clip. Without preamble, she snatched the basket from his hand and stomped off into the underbrush.

Momentarily stunned, Gilbert had to jog to catch up. "Anne! Wait! Where are you going?"

Without turning, she shouted, "Keep up, Blythe, or you'll never know."

* * *

Gilbert stood at the podium, looking out over the crowded auditorium. Two hundred doctors, researchers, and scientists were settling into their seats, chatting with neighbors, flipping to empty pages in their notebooks.

Gilbert noticed a few women in the crowd, including a small group of medical students from Redmond. His had been one of the last all-male classes at Redmond Medical School and hadn't _that_ been a fight with the Board of Governors. Gilbert reflected that he was very glad to have spoken in favor of coeducation at all those interminable faculty meetings. Not just for the sake of the women in the audience, but because he hadn't needed to lie to Mary when she had asked him point-blank about his vote.

Now, Mary was seated in the front row, hands folded quietly in the lap of her black silk dress. Gilbert swallowed, wondering whether he had gone mad. If this didn't work, he might be in for a very, very long ferry ride back to Boston . . .

There was no time to reconsider. Dean Blanchard was calling the assembly to order. He introduced Gilbert as one of Redmond's own and recited the highlights of his career. However displeased the Dean had once been at Gilbert's abrupt departure from Redmond, it was undeniably satisfying to be able to introduce a member of the Harvard faculty as his own protégé.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Gilbert addressed the crowd. "Today, I will be introducing an innovative method of statistical data analysis that we have been using in the typhoid vaccine laboratory at Harvard Medical School for the past year. As you know, the development of a safer and more effective vaccine for typhoid is one of the medical community's top priorities. At Harvard, we believe that rigorous data collection and analysis is the only way to know for certain whether new versions of the vaccine have any advantage over older versions. I know that many researchers in the field are skeptical of statistics, but I hope that a description of our methods will convince you that this ingenious system can be implemented in any laboratory, and is essential to effective experimentation."

Gilbert took a deep breath and flicked a glance at Mary.

 _Here goes nothing . . ._

"Now, it is my pleasure to introduce my colleague, Dr. Mary Parkman, the designer of this system, who will walk you through all the details."

Gilbert stepped away from the podium and waited. There was a short silence, a rustling of papers.

Very slowly, Mary stood and crossed the few feet to the podium. Before she turned to face the audience, she shot Gilbert a look so murderous that he was instantly petrified. Had he just embarrassed her in front of the entire profession? What if all her rational explanations had only covered a genuine reluctance to speak in public? She wasn't afraid of crowds, he knew — he had never seen her happier than she had been on stage at Christmas. But this was not St. James and he should have remembered that. Would she ever forgive him? Would she ever speak to him again at all?

In the single instant it took to destroy all Gilbert's confidence, Dr. Mary Parkman arranged her countenance into a pleasant expression. She took a deep breath, contracted her left hand as if to crack the knuckle of the ring finger, and turned to face her audience.

For the next twenty minutes, she explained her system of statistical data analysis in the clear, precise terms she had written out for Gilbert to read. She neither faltered nor digressed, presenting her work in such a straightforward and engaging manner that even the most cantankerous listeners began to envision how they might implement her system in their own laboratories.

Mary finished her presentation to appreciative applause, some of it downright effusive. When Dean Blanchard opened the floor for questions, a dozen hands shot into the air.

Perhaps Mary might have murdered Gilbert right there in the auditorium when the question-and-answer session ended, but she could not get at him. The moment Dean Blanchard closed the still-active proceedings due to time constraints, Mary was mobbed by well-wishers and inquisitive colleagues. The group of female medical students was particularly enraptured, bouncing on their toes at the back of the pack until they found an opportunity to invite Mary to join them for tea.

Gilbert took his chance and slipped away, not quite sure whether he should buy her flowers or arrange to board whatever ferry, train, or baggage cart was due to leave Kingsport within the next half hour.


	58. Chapter 25: Everything is Fine

Chapter 25: Everything Is Fine

* * *

Gilbert opted for flowers.

Waiting on a sofa in the lobby of Mary's hotel that evening, Gilbert worried the leaves of a rosebud bouquet. Perhaps tea with the medical students would put her in a good mood. Perhaps the overwhelming success of her presentation would reconcile her to his tactics. He gulped. Perhaps she would eviscerate him where he stood.

It was nearly eight o'clock when Mary walked through the grand doors and into the lobby. Gilbert was pleased to see that she was not armed. She saw him at once, paused, then approached with steady, even steps.

Gilbert rose to his feet, holding the now-slightly-ragged bouquet before him as a shield.

"Mary, you were wonderful."

"And you are incorrigible," she replied, not managing to sound quite as angry as she had intended.

Gilbert nodded. "It's been said before."

Mary shook her head, pressing her lips together in what might have been a muffled smile and might have been pent-up fury. "What if I had failed?" she asked, striving for indignation. "What if I had been unprepared?"

"You weren't going to fail," Gilbert replied. "You knew that material backward and forward. I would just have been reading your work. It wouldn't have been fair. Besides, I couldn't have answered half of those questions in the Q-and-A."

The fugitive humor ebbed from Mary's face. "You shouldn't have put me on the spot," she said quietly.

"I know," Gilbert responded sincerely. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

"I'm sorry to have caught you unaware."

Mary shook her head, seeming suddenly on the verge of tears. "But not sorry that you went against my _explicit wishes_?"

Gilbert reached out and touched her arm. "Tell me the truth. Did you really want me to give the presentation? Or were you only calculating that everyone would show up to listen to me and not to you?"

"I was right," she sniffed. "They wouldn't have come in the door in the first place if they'd thought I'd be the one speaking."

"Mary," Gilbert said, "I'm not asking you whether it was a good idea. I'm asking you: Did you want it?"

Her eyes fluttered closed for a single second. "Yes," she breathed.

"Well, then, I'm not sorry."

Gilbert gave Mary's arm a little squeeze and then stepped back. She was looking at him with something more than curiosity. Uncomfortable, Gilbert broke eye contact.

"I . . . I'll see you tomorrow, Mary," he said, looking down at his own feet.

"Do you still want me to come with you to the Blakes'?" she asked, all trace of annoyance gone from her voice.

He looked up cautiously. "Yes. If you still want to go."

"Then I'll meet you here in the lobby at 1:00," Mary said.

He had begun to turn away, but her voice, softer now, arrested him.

"Gilbert? Thank you."

* * *

The next day was Sunday. Gilbert felt that he should have been at his ease, standing on the porch of the Patterson Street manse at dinnertime. Hadn't he made this exact visit nearly every week for ten years?

Well, perhaps not this _exact_ visit. Sunday dinner, yes. But the only times he'd ever brought a guest before had been those few visits with Edgar and Dr. Forbes when Phil's life hung in the balance.

"Aren't you going to knock?" Mary asked.

Gilbert looked down at her for a moment. She wore the blue dress with the blossom-covered overlay she had worn to the Arboretum. The not-work dress.

 _Yes, knock. That's the thing to do._

After a deep breath, Gilbert rapped smartly. A moment later, the manse door opened, but only a few inches.

"Who goes there?" came a small, fierce voice. A stick protruded through the crack in the door, aimed at Gilbert's navel.

"Don't shoot!" Gilbert yelped, holding up his hands.

"It's not a gun, Uncle Gil," the voice hissed. "It's a claymore."

"In that case, stand down, laddie."

The door did not budge. "What's the password?"

Gilbert thought. "Umm . . . Long Live the King Over the Water?"

The door swung wide, revealing Oliver Blake, a plaid shawl wrapped haphazardly around his waist and an old glengarry cap pulled low over one eye. "That'll do," he conceded.

"Hello, Olly," Gilbert beamed, crouching down. "And how is the Bonny Prince?"

"Bully! It's Prestonpans today," the boy grinned back.

"Are highland warriors allowed to hug their uncles?"

Olly hesitated for a moment, not quite sure whether nearly-nine-year-old boys still gave hugs, but ultimately decided that they did. Gilbert closed his eyes as the child wrapped sturdy arms around his neck and squeezed.

"Who's that?" Olly asked, jerking his head in Mary's direction.

"This is Dr. Parkman," Gilbert answered, rising to his feet.

" _You're_ a doctor?" the boy asked, disbelieving.

Any reply Mary might have made was cut off by a shout.

"Gilbert! Is that you?" Phil swept down the stairs and launched herself into an embrace. "Honey, it's been ages! It's so good to . . . see . . . you . . ." Evidently having noticed Mary, Phil straightened up and ran a hand over her hair. "And this must be . . ."

"My colleague, Dr. Parkman," Gilbert said. "Dr. Parkman, this is Phil Blake."

"I'm very pleased to meet you," Mary said, holding out her hand. "Dr. Blythe speaks very highly of you."

Phil took Mary's hand in her own and shook it somewhat absently. "Does he? Oh, it's . . . good . . . to know . . . what he's thinking . . ."

"Phil? Is that Gilbert?" Jo came striding into the hall. "Gil! Good to see you." The two men shook hands before Jo pulled Gilbert into a back-slapping hug.

"Jo," Phil said, her brown eyes twinkling, "meet _Dr. Parkman_."

Jo shook Mary's hand with a kind smile. "Welcome, Dr. Parkman! I see you've already met our little highlander. Olly, don't leave that stick in the middle of the hall. Go fetch your brother, please. Dr. Parkman, allow me to show you to the sitting room."

As Jo led Mary into the manse, Phil fell in beside Gilbert. She took his arm with a sweet smile, but jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. Gilbert looked down to see her failing to hide a smug expression.

No, perhaps not this _exact_ visit.

* * *

Later, at dinner, Mary turned to Phil, smiling pleasantly. "I understand that you and Dr. Blythe were friends at college?"

Before Phil could say anything, Gilbert answered. "Yes. Phil was one of Anne's roommates at Patty's Place."

Phil's fork clattered to her plate. She stared, open-mouthed, first at Gilbert, then at Mary, then, pointedly, at Jo.

"Yes," Jo interjected, riding to Phil's rescue. "We've known Gilbert a long time. When he lived in Kingsport, we had a standing date for Sunday dinner. And of course, he saved Phil's life when no other doctor could."

Mary looked curiously at Gilbert. "You did? I thought you never treated patients."

Gilbert's ears had gone slightly pink. "Well, no. But Phil was a special case."

Phil, who had recovered enough to retrieve her fork, explained. "I suffered from hyperemesis before Gordon was born. With both boys, actually. It was quite serious. Gilbert tried every remedy under the sun until he found one that helped."

"It was nothing," Gilbert demurred.

"It was everything, and you know it," Phil replied crisply.

"I'm named for Uncle Gil," Gordon piped up. "Not Gordon. That's Mother's maiden name. But my middle name is Blythe."

"I've got Byrne," added Olly, rather sullenly. "Like Grandmother. And her nose as well."

Gilbert looked across the table at Mary, who was shaking with silent mirth.

"That's not very polite, Olly," Jo chided.

"Mother says it all the time!" Olly protested.

Phil shrugged, looking guilty, and the table relaxed in companionable laughter.

For the next half hour, they traded news. Gilbert described Harvard to an enthralled Gordon, who harbored certain academic ambitions that extended beyond Kingsport Academy. Jo spoke of the little fishing village that had called him, and of the family's impending move. At Gilbert's prompting, Mary told the story of the carbolic acid accident, and was rewarded with Olly's rapt attention.

"I just had a letter from Diana on Friday," Phil said. "Millie has had her baby. A boy this time; they've named him Harrison. She reports that Davy is enraptured."

"Is that Davy of Davy-and-Dora fame?" Mary asked Gilbert.

He nodded, missing the rising arch of Phil's brow.

Olly had begun to squirm in his seat. "Mother, please. Prestonpans."

Phil excused the boys from the table and rose herself, a beatific smile plastered across her face. With a meaningful look at Jo, she said, "Why don't I go fetch us some tea? Dr. Parkman, will you assist me?"

Mary rose and followed Phil into the kitchen.

As the door swung shut behind her, Jo turned to Gilbert and cleared his throat. "So . . . Dr. Parkman . . ."

"Give it a rest Jo," Gilbert groaned. "Phil has been in hysterics since we walked in the door."

"She seems . . . lovely," Jo said, biting the inside of his cheek.

"It's not what you think," Gilbert protested. "She's a colleague."

"You seem to be on rather friendly terms."

"Fine. A friend, then."

Jo leaned forward. "I like to think you and I are friends, Gil. And I haven't heard you say Anne's name one single time in fifteen years, let alone . . . casually."

Gilbert ran his fingers through his hair. "It's . . . it's not like that. She lost her husband. And two little kids! In a diphtheria epidemic. We just . . . talk."

"I'm glad you have someone to talk to."

Jo did not smile, but a certain merry sparkle in his green eyes drove Gilbert to exasperation.

"You're as bad as Dr. Wright! Can't I just have a female colleague? I seem to remember us having a fairly serious conversation about what a shame it is to educate women and then ask them to give up their callings. Mary is a chemist. We came to Kingsport to present a paper. She was a great success, by the way."

"Oh, it's _Mary_ , is it?"

"Stop."

"I'm not asking just because she's a woman," Jo persisted. "I'm asking because you look at her like she hung the moon."

"I wouldn't put it past her," Gilbert muttered.

"And because you seem to have told her . . . everything."

"Not everything."

"Oh? Your other colleagues know about Davy and Dora, do they?"

"It's not like that," Gilbert objected, seemingly unable to find other words. "Believe me, Jo, she is absolutely not interested in me."

Jo's mouth twisted into definitely-not-a-smile. "If I recall correctly, you tend to go in for that sort of thing, don't you?"

Whatever Gilbert meant to say in reply erupted instead as a dry cough, then another.

"Are you alright, Gilbert?" Mary asked, stepping back into the dining room with a plate of sugar cookies, Phil following close behind.

"Fine . . . I'm . . . fine. Everything is fine."


	59. Chapter 26: Strictly Professional

Chapter 26: Strictly Professional

* * *

Late one Friday, Gilbert carried the receipts from the Kingsport conference down to Dean Hilliard's office on the first floor of Harvard Medical School. It had been a few weeks since he and Mary had returned to Boston. In that time, Gilbert, preoccupied, had neglected to submit the necessary paperwork so that they could be reimbursed for their travel expenses. He didn't expect the Dean to be in this evening; he only meant to leave the receipts for the clerical staff to process next week.

Thus, Gilbert was surprised to hear Dean Hilliard hail him from the inner sanctum of his office.

"Come in, Dr. Blythe! Come in! This is fortuitous; I've been meaning to call you in all week. Just never got a chance."

Not knowing what to expect, Gilbert arranged his features into an amiable expression and took a seat before the enormous oak desk.

"What can I do for you, Dean Hilliard?" he asked.

The Dean gave an apologetic smile. "The truth is, Dr. Blythe, that someone has filed a complaint. An official complaint. With my office."

Gilbert was startled. "A complaint? Against me?"

"Well . . ." Dean Hilliard said, "not against you, precisely. Against one of your colleagues. Dr. Parkman."

"A complaint against Dr. Parkman? What sort of complaint?"

"The charge is that Dr. Parkman behaves inappropriately. Specifically, toward you. That she seeks to . . . fraternize. That there may be some impropriety afoot."

Gilbert had gone white to the lips. "Just who has filed this complaint?" he asked, having a very good idea of the answer.

The Dean frowned. "I am not at liberty to say. I can tell you that the complainant did not submit any very definite examples. More of a . . . collection of circumstantial evidence. This recent trip to Kingsport, for one."

"It was a medical conference," Gilbert protested. "We presented some of Dr. Parkman's original work. Surely you've heard that she was a great success."

"Indeed. I had a letter from Dean Blanchard at Redmond. Most impressive. But you must see how it might look from the outside, especially if some of the other charges are true. Late nights alone in the lab? Weekends?"

"I don't know how Dr. Lowell would know anything about what goes on in the lab outside of his very limited work hours," Gilbert growled, leaning forward in his chair.

"How did you . . . ? Never mind. Dr. Blythe, there's no reason to be upset. You aren't in any trouble. I merely wanted to warn you and alert you to the fact that Dr. Parkman's record is under review."

"That's . . . that's . . ." Gilbert could not speak through his fury. With an immense effort, he focused on his breathing, calming himself sufficiently to force words through his teeth. "Dean Hilliard. I assure you that my relationship with Dr. Parkman is strictly professional. And that any reports that have reached you regarding any impropriety whatsoever on Dr. Parkman's part are entirely false."

"I'm very glad to hear it," the Dean said, nodding solemnly. "All the same, keep your guard up, Blythe. You do excellent work here, and are a valued member of the Harvard faculty. Wouldn't want to see anything stand in the way of your career."

 _I wonder whether murdering Dr. Lowell would stand in the way of my career._

"Thank you, Dean Hilliard, for bringing this matter to my attention."

"I apologize for the unpleasantness, Dr. Blythe. Had to be done."

"I understand, sir." Gilbert rose to his feet and shook the Dean's hand with enough force that the older man opened and closed his fist several times when Gilbert had disappeared back through his office door.

* * *

Gilbert climbed the stairs to the third floor, feeling every leaden step as a reproach. The building was quiet; the students were on summer holiday and most of the staff had gone home for the weekend already. They would be alone in the lab, as they had been so often before.

For the past year, Friday evenings had been among the best parts of his week: tea with Mary, anticipating Saturday in the lab with Mary and Sunday at St. James with Mary. He hadn't realized just how much it meant to him until this moment.

He had to end things.

 _Not that there's anything to end._

They had gotten too comfortable, too close. Dr. Lowell was not entirely wrong, _damn him_. Gilbert and Mary had been more than colleagues for months now.

 _Friends. We are friends._

Gilbert paused at the lab door. Peeking in, he saw Mary there, preparing tea at his desk, waiting for him to return, an undeniable smile lighting her face.

This was supposed to have been a pleasant evening. Mary had declared that she wanted to put a face to all Gilbert's stories of Anne, and asked him to bring a photograph. She promised to do the same. Mary explained that she had no pictures of baby James — they hadn't had any made when he was a newborn and she had absolutely refused Mr. and Mrs. Parkman's request to have a postmortem photograph taken. But she had several of Elsie. And of Henry, of course. Mary and Gilbert had agreed to bring their treasures here tonight and exchange them. By the giddy way she moved when she thought no one was watching, Mary was looking forward to it.

Gilbert leaned against the doorjamb and took a deep breath. He should go home right now. Should not sit with Mary. Should not drink tea. Should definitely not spend the evening reminiscing over personal keepsakes.

 _My relationship with Dr. Parkman is strictly professional._

Then why was it so difficult to swallow?

Feeling a coward for lingering unseen in the doorway, Gilbert stepped into the lab and shut the door firmly behind him. Would it seem suspicious to lock it?

"Gilbert!" Mary said, grinning up at him. "I've been looking forward to this all day. I can't wait to meet your Anne!"

He tried to smile and failed. "Mary . . ."

"Don't be nervous," she said, taking his hand and leading him to his chair.

"Mary, I don't think this is a good idea . . ."

"You can't back out now. See? Tea's all ready. And I'll go first if that will make things easier."

Gilbert felt his resolve slip. Mary was fairly buzzing with anticipation. He couldn't disappoint her, whatever Dean Hilliard thought might be going on between them. Besides, they were the only people on the third floor. And he was awfully curious to see her photographs . . .

Mary set a thin paper parcel on the desk and unwrapped it. With shy delight, she drew out a tan cabinet card. "This is my Elsie," she said, passing it across the desk to Gilbert.

Gilbert's misgivings about this exercise melted away the moment he laid eyes on the little girl in the photograph. No one could see that face and resist smiling.

She was three or four years old, with shining curls pinned in fat rolls on either side of her head. A voluminous plaid dress bedecked with oversized black velvet bows nearly swallowed her with its wide collar and sleeve puffs that were broader than her waist. But it was not the curious costume that enchanted Gilbert. Underneath black brows, the child glowered back at him with dark eyes that were unsettlingly familiar. Her pointed little chin was tucked down on her chest and her mouth twisted into a snarl of vengeful malice that brought out twin dimples in her fat little cheeks. The expression was at such odds with the splendor of her raiment that Gilbert could only laugh.

"That's one of my favorites," Mary chuckled. "Elsie appreciating a gift from Grandfather and Grandmother Parkman."

"She looks like a handful."

"She was indeed," Mary replied. "Here. This one is actually my favorite."

She handed Gilbert another card. This one showed Mary herself, heavily pregnant, her dark hair braided loosely down her back, holding Elsie around the waist as the girl stood on a many-faceted boulder in a flower-crowded front yard. They gazed into one another's eyes, their noses touching. The child's pudgy hands rested on either side of her mother's face, holding her close.

"That's . . . beautiful, Mary," Gilbert said, somewhat huskily.

"That was just before James was born," she explained. "It's the last one I have of her, and the only one where James puts in any sort of appearance."

Gilbert studied the photograph closely. "Is this your house?"

"Yes. The house in Cambridge. I wasn't really up for going to a photographer's studio at that point, so Henry sent for one to come to the house. This picture was his favorite as well."

"I can see why."

"I sold it. Just after they died."

Gilbert looked up, knowing he had missed something.

"The house, I mean," Mary explained. "I couldn't bear to stay there — I went back to live with my parents for a while, until I started medical school. We had some money; not what Henry was used to, of course, but he was a talented architect and we lived comfortably. I suppose he would have inherited from his father eventually, but he solved that problem for the Parkmans by dying first. The house was the only really valuable thing we owned. It was a wedding gift from his parents. I sold it."

Gilbert nodded. He thought of Green Gables and the little east gable room. He still didn't like to visit Davy there.

Mary was still talking. "I gave most of the money away. To Boston University. There's a scholarship now, for girls who study science or mathematics. In Elsie's name."

"That's very generous of you, Mary."

She shrugged. "It wasn't my money. I didn't earn it and I didn't want it. And I didn't give it all away. I kept enough to put myself through medical school and a bit of savings just in case."

Gilbert looked back at the photograph in his hand. "You look . . . radiant."

Mary smiled, her eyes shining. "Do you want to see Henry?"

Gilbert nodded, handing the precious photo back to Mary and accepting the one she held out to him.

At sight of it, Gilbert's eyebrows shot up. " _That's_ Henry?"

The man in the photograph was handsome in the impossible way of stage actors and romantic heroes in novels. His face would have been heart-shaped but for the strong line of his jaw, and deep-set eyes smoldered under a clear, high brow. He wore a mustache — not one of the elaborate creations that made young men look like coddled lap dogs, but a modest growth that lent him an air of distinguished maturity despite his youth. His hair swept back from his forehead in waves that imbued the still photograph with a sense of perpetual movement. Something about him, perhaps his posture or the way he seemed at ease in the perfectly tailored wedding suit he wore, betrayed the fact that he had been born to tremendous wealth and privilege. He looked not at the camera, but at Mary, with an expression that made Gilbert blush.

"Yes," Mary answered, seeming not to register Gilbert's amazement as she gazed at the beloved face in the photograph. "This was our wedding day."

"He's . . . ummm . . . a good-looking fellow," Gilbert said, feeling awkward.

"Yes," Mary smiled. "I'm sure I mentioned that, didn't I?"

"I'm not sure your description quite captured . . . all that."

She wrinkled her nose and chuckled. "He's just dressed up. A minute after this was taken he pinched me and whispered something scandalous in my ear."

"I'm sure he did."

Gilbert directed his attention to the Mary in the photograph. If he hadn't known that she was 22, he would have guessed younger. The eyes he knew well enough, large and dark and sparkling with lively intelligence. The face was softer, though; rounder and gentler. Perhaps it was the way she wore her hair, braided with flowers in a long cascade over one shoulder. Or perhaps it was the dress — not the structured bridal gown Gilbert had expected, but a pale and gauzy creation that seemed lifted from the imagination of Alphonse Mucha.

"You're beautiful, Mary." Gilbert breathed, then realized what he had said. "I mean, it's a lovely dress."

"I always dress for the occasion, Dr. Blythe," she said wryly.

Gilbert looked more closely at the photograph. "You're not wearing a ring, even here," he commented. "Didn't you ever wear one?"

"I did wear an engagement ring . . . for about a week," she said. "It threw off the balance of my hands; I couldn't titrate accurately _at all_. So I returned it."

"Oh? How did Henry take that?"

"He just laughed and said he'd have to come up with something else."

"Did he?" Gilbert asked, entertained.

To his surprise, Mary faltered. "Yes," she whispered, eventually.

Gilbert's cheeks warmed. Clearly, he had stumbled across something private. "I'm sorry, Mary. I didn't mean to pry."

Mary hesitated, but then shook her head. "No. It's quite alright. It's only . . ."

She contracted her left hand, pressing her thumb over the base of the ring finger. Gilbert had seen the gesture a hundred times before, never thinking anything of it.

Now, Mary held out her hand for his inspection. Looking closely, Gilbert saw what looked like a ring of tiny feathers circling the finger where a wedding band would have gone. In a moment, he realized that they were delicate scars, crosshatched across her skin.

Gilbert blanched. "Mary. Did you . . . _cut_ . . . a ring into your finger?"

Mary blushed a deep scarlet. "Well, _I_ certainly didn't do the cutting."

Gilbert coughed.

It was a moment before he could speak. When he did, he asked, "You didn't, by any chance, enjoy _Wuthering Heights_ , did you?"

" _Wuthering Heights_?"

"Never mind."

Mary cocked her head, but decided not to inquire further. Clapping her hands together, she smiled. "Now let's see your picture."

Gilbert had not quite recovered, but he rallied his wits as best he could. He felt an odd fluttering in his chest as he reached into his satchel and drew out the paper-wrapped photograph. It had been concealed in the green-and-white striped hatbox for so long, only emerging on those nights when he had needed it or when it had called him so strongly that he could not resist. It felt distinctly uncomfortable to carry it about in the world, unwrap it in a well-lit room, hand it to someone else.

Mary took it from his hand reverently, beaming down on Anne and Gilbert as they grinned in their convocation robes.

"Oh!" she gasped. "Gilbert, she's beautiful! And you . . ." she stretched out a finger to caress the image on the card, "you're _so_ young."

Gilbert tried to speak but found that he could not.

"This is when you graduated from Redmond?"

He only nodded.

Mary studied the picture, her face soft with affection. "I'm imagining her hair red," she said fondly.

"She . . . she was already sick then," Gilbert said, though he had not meant to. "She didn't know it yet. And I . . . I found out later that day. I . . . didn't tell her."

Mary looked up, confused. "You knew she was sick? How?"

Gilbert swallowed. "I tutored a boy who was preparing for a school entrance exam. But I was ill — not seriously, I was just working too hard and I caught a cold when I was run down. So Anne . . . she went to his house to tutor him instead. To let me rest. And that's where . . . well, I found out at convocation that the boy had died. Of typhoid. I hadn't been to his house in weeks, so I knew I was safe. But Anne . . ."

Mary placed the photograph on the desk and reached across to squeeze Gilbert's hand. "You can't blame yourself for that, Gilbert. It wasn't your fault."

"If only I had gone, as I was supposed to," he said quietly. "It was _my_ responsibility."

"No." Mary shook her head decidedly. "It wasn't your fault, Gilbert."

"I know," he whispered.

"Do you?" Mary's voice was gentle. "It's not your fault that Anne fell ill. And it's not your fault that she died."

"I . . . I know."

Mary reached over and, softly, took both of his hands in hers. "No, Gilbert. Look at me."

He raised brimming hazel eyes to her, and she looked back, unafraid.

"It wasn't your fault."

Gilbert's face crumpled then, and he pulled back his hands to cover it. Doubling in on himself, he rested his head against the desk, sobbing.

Mary hesitated, then stepped around the desk and laid a tender hand on his shoulder. When he did not resist, she stroked his back, then moved her hand higher and ran fingers through his thick, brown curls. She murmured a stream of soft words that Gilbert could not understand, though he knew them for the endearments they were.

When the first wave of his relief had passed and he sat up a little, Mary put her arms around his shoulders. Gilbert leaned against her, still sitting, and shuddered, taking one deep, gasping breath after another.

They stayed that way a long time, neither knowing nor caring whether anyone was watching.

* * *

The next day, Gilbert did not go to the lab. He did not go to the hospital, nor to the Public Garden, nor to the Arboretum. Instead, he walked the banks of the Charles River, following its winding course from one end of the city to the other.

Every time he thought through the events of last night, Gilbert flushed with shame. In the moment, it had all made sense, but in the clear light of morning, all he could think was how inappropriate it had been. He shouldn't be confessing to Mary. She shouldn't be comforting him. He definitely should not be weeping into her skirt as she held him — _in the middle of the lab!_ — no matter how right it had felt at the time.

And it _had_ felt right. More than right; Gilbert felt shriven. The weight of guilt that he had carried all these years had been dissolved — no, _absolved_. It was hard to describe the feeling in anything but sacramental terms.

But what if someone had come to the lab last night? He'd be fired for sure.

 _No_. _She would be_.

Anne's death was not his fault. But this was.

A sudden realization jolted Gilbert from top to toe. Forget Lowell. Even if Mary truly cared - _and she doesn't_ \- nothing could ever come of it. She could never give up medicine. He could never even ask it of her.

Gilbert kicked a rock into the river.

 _What a mess._

He had to put this right. Unfortunately, it was probably too late to address the matter by firing Dr. Lowell, even if Dr. Lowell could be fired. And that wouldn't really change things anyway. No, Gilbert knew what he had to do. He was going to have to step away. Far away. Maybe away from the lab altogether.

The first step was to dust off the old electric barrier in his mind. There was no more _Mary_. Only _Dr. Parkman_.

It was the only way to protect her.


	60. Chapter 27: Mostly

Chapter 27: Mostly

* * *

On Sunday morning, Gilbert abandoned his bed before dawn. He fumbled with his tie; he spilled tea on his shirt and had to change.

Should he even go to St. James today?

The question hurt more than he thought it would. It wasn't just a matter of giving up his friendship with Dr. Parkman; the clinic itself mattered to him. He loved the patients; loved the work. The last vestiges of his unease had finally vanished the day they had visited Anne Hawkins together. Lately, Gilbert's hands had been steady; his heart did not pound. He felt — mostly — that he could trust himself.

But St. James wasn't his. It was Dr. Parkman's. And if Gilbert was going to give her up, he had better start with the clinic. He'd go today, but only to tell Dr. Parkman it was the last time.

* * *

Even though it was still ten minutes til eight o'clock, Dr. Parkman was already waiting for him at the entrance to the Public Garden.

"Good morning, Gilbert," she said, beaming.

"Good morning, Dr. Parkman," he replied.

She blinked at this formal address, but did not retreat. "I'm glad to see you," she said. "I was afraid you might not come today."

Gilbert bit the inside of his cheek. "Dr. Parkman . . . I . . ."

She held up a hand. "Please. Gilbert, everything is fine. Don't let this be awkward. There's no need. Please."

"I . . ."

He looked down into imploring eyes, a hopeful smile still evident in the corners of her mouth. How could he tell her he was never coming back?

"I . . . just wanted to apologize."

"Don't," she said, slipping her arm through his, even though he had not offered it.

They started down Boylston Street together, Dr. Parkman chatting animatedly about her new plan to ask Monsignor McQuaid for permission to train some of the young members of the congregation in basic first aid.

Gilbert could barely hear her over the hammering of his heart. There would be plenty of time to tell her after the clinic.

 _Just get through the next couple of hours._

* * *

The St. James clinic was busy that day, but Dr. Parkman greeted her patients with a smile that lit her eyes all the way back.

"You look real happy, Dr. Mary," Peggy Rourke said, skipping back and forth as she waited for her turn to be seen. "Is it your birthday?"

Gilbert was not so cheerful. Surveying the final row of patients, he called on Tom Ryan, whose bloody, mangled hand looked like it would take an hour of close, careful cleaning. Good. It would keep him occupied, pass the time.

"Did you put this through a window?" Gilbert asked, tweezing another shard of glass from a knuckle.

Mr. Ryan shrugged.

"You shouldn't do that," Gilbert admonished. "You could really hurt yourself."

"I didn't really care much at the time," Mr. Ryan muttered.

It was a tedious job, but Gilbert thought he had done well. When the wound was clean, he put in several stitches, which Mr. Ryan endured with bad grace.

"Change the dressings every other day," Gilbert instructed. "And come back next week to get it checked by Dr. Parkman."

"Who?" Mr. Ryan asked.

"Oh. Dr. Mary. She'll check it."

"Won't you check it?"

Gilbert did not bother trying to smile. "If I'm not available, Dr. Parkman will look after you."

When he had washed his hands and cleaned his instruments, Gilbert went to call his next patient. The rows of chairs were nearly empty, the day's work nearly done. Dr. Parkman stood near the end of the last row, speaking with Mrs. Rourke, who was attempting to get the smallest of her four daughters to open her mouth.

"Katie! Please, just open your mouth for Dr. Mary. If I can only get her to show you where the tooth is coming in . . ." Mrs. Rourke said, exasperated.

Gilbert approached to see whether there was anything he could do to help.

"Oh!" Dr. Parkman said, flustered at his appearance. "No, we're fine here, Gilbert. But would you check Peggy's hand? She needs a new dressing."

Gilbert nodded.

"Run along, _mo ghrá_ ," said Mrs. Rourke to Peggy. Gilbert heard and looked up sharply, but both Mrs. Rourke and Dr. Parkman had turned their attention back to Katie's tooth.

Peggy Rourke trotted across the hall to Gilbert's examination table and hoisted herself up. The previous week, she had come to the clinic with a long gash on her hand, occasioned by the intersection of a particularly vivid daydream and a particularly sharp paring knife. Mary had closed the wound with two neat stitches, and it seemed to be healing well.

Peggy chatted away as Gilbert changed the dressing, informing him of the feuds and dramas of her little world. Apparently, Nellie Sheehan and Fiona Cavanaugh were not speaking to one another because Fiona's brother said that Nellie's cousin Lucy . . .

"Peggy, do you know how to speak Irish?" Gilbert asked, interrupting the stream of prattle.

"Sure, Dr. Blythe. A little bit, anyway. Ma makes my sisters and me go to class at the Gaelic School every week."

"Your ma. She called you _mo ghrá_. What does that mean?"

"That's easy. It means _my_ _love_."

"What about . . . _a ghrá mo chroí_?"

Peggy smiled. "That's more like _love of my heart_. My Granny says that to us when she's putting us to bed."

"Alright, Peggy, one more. What does _a rúnsearc_ mean?"

Peggy's eyes flew wide. "Who's teaching you Irish, Dr. Blythe? At the Gaelic School, we mostly just learn the days of the week and sing a song about ducks."

Gilbert felt his face grow hot. "Sorry, Peggy. I shouldn't have asked you. Umm. . . thanks for the help."

"Any time, Dr. Blythe," she said, hopping down from the table. "I can teach you a new word every week if you like."

"Sure," Gilbert replied absently.

"And you can ask Dr. Mary about Irish, too," Peggy chirped. "She knows more than I do. Although," she gave Gilbert a skeptical look, "you probably shouldn't say _that_ to her. She might get mad."

"No," he replied, half-dazed. "Thanks, Peggy."

* * *

It didn't mean anything. She was only comforting him in his grief. They were the kinds of words a grandmother murmured to a child at bedtime.

Mostly.

* * *

When the patients had gone and the hall was set to rights, it was time to say goodbye, not just for the day. But the words Gilbert had planned stuck in his throat. They didn't come when Dr. Parkman led him from the church basement, nor when she took his arm on the street.

"I didn't get a chance to talk to Monsignor McQuaid today," she said. "Too busy. Will you remind me next week?"

Gilbert only nodded.

When they reached Dr. Parkman's boarding house, Gilbert hailed a cab for her. The horse drew to a stop, standing placidly as Gilbert opened the door.

Dr. Parkman did not step in. Instead, she stood on the curb, a film of concern dampening her previous good humor. "Gilbert, are you alright?"

The truth was an unutterable heaviness where his heart had been, but he had never lied easily.

"I . . . don't know."

Dr. Parkman reached out and rested her fingers lightly on his arm. "Do you want me to stay?" she asked. "I don't have to go to Mount Auburn today. We could go for a walk."

This was the moment. He must tell her that there would be no more walks. No more Sundays. That he was going to Toronto or London.

 _Or Siberia_.

Instead, he shook his head, gave a wan smile. "No. You go on. I'll see you tomorrow."

They stood, facing one another, balancing on the curb. Then, in the moment of their parting, a kiss blossomed in the space between them. Neither had moved; neither had made it concrete. But both had felt it, nevertheless.

He stepped back. Her eyes went wide.

"I . . . I'm . . . just going to . . . go," she stammered. She stepped into the cab, closed the door, and rumbled off toward the cemetery.

Gilbert raised a hand in weak farewell, not sure he could breathe.


	61. Chapter 28: In Agreement

Chapter 28: In Agreement

* * *

Gilbert sat alone on his sitting-room sofa, staring into the empty grate in the hearth. He cradled a glass of good scotch, not making much of an effort to drink it. Edgar had sent him a bottle at Christmas; when would he ever open it if not tonight?

 _What on earth had happened today?_

Gilbert groaned. He had failed, that's what. And then he had almost . . .

He would have to do better. Be braver. Tomorrow, he would have to stand his ground and tell Dr. Parkman that there could never be anything between them. For her own good.

Gilbert's reverie was interrupted by a rapid, forceful knocking at the door. Setting down his glass, he stepped into the hall.

He had barely opened the door when a tempest in blue hurtled past him and into the hall.

"Dr. Parkman!" Gilbert was surprised to see her at all, shocked to see her looking slightly wild-eyed, her smart little cap decidedly off-center. Bits of grass clung to her dress and her face was flushed. Had she walked all the way from the cemetery?

Seeing her disheveled made Gilbert forget that he had resolved to address her formally. "Mary, are you alright?" he asked. "What has happened?"

Mary took several steps into the hall before pivoting and marching purposefully back toward Gilbert. She stood before him and opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it again and paced away. When she returned a second time, Gilbert grabbed her by the elbow.

"Come sit down. Let me get you a cup of tea."

"Always tea!" Mary cried. "What is it about tea anyway?"

By this point, Gilbert was truly alarmed. "What are you doing here? What's wrong?"

"Many things are wrong, Dr. Blythe. Many, many things," she muttered darkly.

"Perhaps if you come inside and sit down, we can start at the top of the list," Gilbert said in what he hoped was a soothing voice.

Mary looked him in the eye and compressed her lips, considering. Gilbert was relieved when she unfastened her cap and placed it on the table by the door.

He led her into the sitting room, wondering to himself whether she was in any fit state to be left alone for the few minutes it would take him to prepare a tea tray.

Mary did not sit. She paced before the fireplace, following the elliptical pattern of the braided rug. Gilbert sat gingerly on the end of the sofa farthest from the hearth, hoping to set an example that she might follow.

"Mary . . ." he ventured, "are you quite well? Has something happened?"

"No, nothing has happened!"

"Then why are you here?"

She stopped then, turning toward him and fixing him with a steady gaze that was much more her own. Swallowing once, she set her jaw and said, "I came here to tell you that I cannot marry you."

Whatever Gilbert had been expecting, it had certainly not been that.

"You . . . can't . . . _what?_ " he sputtered.

"I can't marry you," she said in a calmer, though no less decided tone. Evidently, once the matter had been released into the open air, she had regained some control over herself.

Gilbert, on the other hand, was much less composed.

"Oh, I heard you," he assured her. "I just . . . what are talking about?"

Mary lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him. "I came here tonight to inform you that I have no intention of marrying ever again and that even if I did, it would be quite impossible for me to marry _you_ , Dr. Blythe."

Gilbert rubbed a hand over his face. "Mary, perhaps you could leap back to an earlier point in the logical proof that has concluded with you refusing a proposal that, as far as I know, does not exist."

"Don't mock me, Gilbert," she snapped.

"I'm not mocking you. I am merely attempting to follow the convolutions of your fascinating mind."

"This was a bad idea," Mary replied, striding briskly toward the hall.

Gilbert leapt from his seat and caught her by the arm. "Oh no, Mary. You can't just burst in here, declare you won't marry me, and then storm out again. Come right back in, sit down, and we'll hash this out. From the beginning, for mercy's sake."

Mary allowed him to lead her back into the room, but seated herself in one of the armchairs, rather than on the sofa. Gilbert sat on the sofa opposite and spread his hands, inviting her to speak.

Mary took a deep breath. She did not drop her gaze, but held his eye as constantly as ever. "Ever since last Christmas, something has changed between us. I knew that it was a bad idea to go with you to Kingsport, but I wrote it off as a collegial gesture. There are things I have told you that I have never discussed with another living person, and I suspect the same is true for you. That can't go on. I am happy to work in your lab and esteem you as a colleague. But that is all we can ever be to one another. I even think you should stop coming to St. James."

Gilbert blinked several times. Certainly he agreed. But to hear his own resolution from Mary was another matter entirely. A flush was creeping up his face, his cheeks beginning to burn. "I'm sorry to hear that you have found my company so unsatisfactory . . ."

Mary cut him off with a clipped motion of her hand. "Your company is more than satisfactory, Dr. Blythe. But this sort of interaction leads only one way. It isn't proper."

Gilbert raised his eyebrows. "Proper? You're the one showing up at my house late at night, alone, and barging in. Where I come from, that's about the last way to get yourself not-married. People will talk."

Mary looked around the room, incredulous. "Who, exactly, will talk? This is the city and I am a grown woman. I go where I wish and do as I please."

"For example, not get married," Gilbert replied, pushing away thoughts of Dr. Lowell. For all he knew, the little weasel could be lurking on the curb at this very moment.

"Exactly," Mary sniffed. "I am a doctor. And while it might please Almroth Wright to see me trade in my MD for an MRS, I am not inclined to oblige him."

"Suit yourself, Mary," Gilbert said evenly. "Though I am curious; of all the men whom you will not be marrying, why am I particularly unsuitable?"

"You are my supervisor," she said simply. "I have worked too long and too hard to secure my place at Harvard to let certain people find any evidence for their jealous theories of my success."

"You'd better hope none of them saw you battering down my door in the middle of the night," Gilbert observed.

"Indeed," Mary agreed. "Thank you, Dr. Blythe. I will see myself home now."

She turned to take her leave, but he called after her.

"Is that the real reason?"

Mary whirled back around, eyes ablaze. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Gilbert shrugged. "You seem to be able to discuss the hierarchy of the lab calmly enough. But you blew in here like a hurricane. Are you sure there's not something else behind all this?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." If Mary had meant to sound haughty or aloof, she failed spectacularly. Her brown eyes glowed in the lamplight, burning in a taut face, poised to strike.

Gilbert rose to his feet, the better to brace himself. "Mary, if there is something on your mind, just tell me."

Mary squared her shoulders and closed her fist. "Fine. I can't marry you — or anyone else — because I . . . am still married."

"To Henry?" Gilbert asked, incredulous.

"Yes. To Henry."

"Henry . . . is dead," Gilbert said, a clipped edge creeping into his voice.

"So is Anne," Mary snapped.

The words landed as blows, and Gilbert felt anger rise in his chest. "I am well aware of that," he said through gritted teeth.

"Then you know just how I feel," Mary said, her voice rising.

"You still love him," Gilbert growled.

"Of course I do!" Mary shouted. "And you still love her!"

"Of course I do!"

"Good! Then we're in agreement! I can't love you! And you can't love me!"

"But I do!"

Gilbert staggered back from his own words with an exhalation of pure shock. He had not meant to say that at all. But . . .

"And I think . . ." he said, much more quietly, ". . . that you might love me, too."

Mary's face was ashen, her flashing eyes on the verge of combustion. She took a single step forward and Gilbert flinched to absorb the slap he knew was coming . . .

They fell onto the sofa together, kicking over the side table, spattering scotch over Marilla's braided rug.

She kissed him fiercely, or else he kissed her. There was no puzzling it out. There was only an overwhelming impression of soft skin and gasping breath and intertwinglement. The concept of distance collapsed to such an extent that a millimeter between lips admitted galaxies.

Just as suddenly, they repelled to the edges of the sofa as if their polarities had been reversed. Both stared, panting, gaping at one another. How had his collar come undone? How had her hairpins fallen out?

Without breaking eye contact, without speaking, Mary rose to her feet and began to back out of the sitting room. Gilbert, rooted to the sofa, made no move to stop her. A moment later, the door slammed and she was gone. Gilbert could only stare after her.


	62. Chapter 29: Playing Cards for Money

Chapter 29: Playing Cards for Money

* * *

Gilbert walked with an undeniable spring in his step. Just one more week teaching at White Sands, and then a golden summer of promise and possibility stretched before him. And beyond that, Redmond! Redmond with Anne! These days, he often found himself grinning at nothing and no one in particular, unable to contain the joy threatening to burst his heart.

He tucked the grin away when he caught sight of Anne on the veranda of Green Gables. She sat on the steps, head lowered on her crossed arms, frowning.

"Why so blue?" Gilbert asked, taking a seat beside her.

"Dresses," came the laconic reply.

" _Dresses?_ "

Anne sighed. "It's just . . . Gilbert, what am I going to wear to Redmond?"

Gilbert laughed, a trifle nervously. "Wear whatever you like, Anne."

Anne turned brimming eyes to him, and Gilbert realized that there might be more at stake than fashion.

"Anne," he said, taking her hand, "what's wrong?"

"I . . . I have to begin sewing. Mrs. Lynde said she would help me, but Marilla can't, and I'll need to do most of it myself, but I just can't think what to make."

Gilbert was not much enlightened. Instead of making any reckless declaration of preference, he opted to wait and see what Anne might say on her own.

"It's only . . ." she began, ". . . only that I don't know whether I should go in mourning or not."

Gilbert nodded. Now they were getting somewhere.

"It's been two years," he said, as gently as he could. "No one expects you to wear only black or white forever."

Anne's frown deepened. "I know they don't. But I . . . I expect it of myself. Oh, Gil, I don't know what to do. I feel as if wearing colors would proclaim that I'm finished grieving for Matthew. That . . . that I'd forgotten him."

Gilbert wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "No one could think you had forgotten him, Anne."

"Maybe not here," she conceded, close to tears. "But in Kingsport, it will be different. No one there knew Matthew. If I went about in mourning, at least the people I met would know that I had lost someone. They would ask me about him and give me their sympathy and let me speak of him. But if I go in ordinary clothing, no one will know. It's not just that I'm afraid Matthew will be forgotten. I'm afraid that people won't see that I am who I am because of him. That they'll never ask about him and I'll never get the chance to tell them."

"I'll ask you about him, Anne. I won't forget."

She gave him a tired smile. "Thanks, Gil."

"Only you can decide whether you're ready ready to wear colors again," Gilbert said. Then, risking something, he added, "But I've always thought that you were lovely in green."

Anne leaned her cheek against his shoulder. Gilbert hoped that she could not hear the hammering of his heart.

The next time he saw Anne, far away across the fields, she was walking toward Echo Lodge, deep in conversation with Paul Irving. Gilbert's heart leapt to see her _in a new dress of pale green muslin . . . the first color she had worn since Matthew's death_.*

* * *

In the morning, Gilbert was somewhat the worse for lack of sleep. At breakfast, he was bleary enough to request coffee instead of tea, making Mrs. Milligan scrutinize his face for signs of illness. The coffee helped, if only because the unaccustomed bitterness made him wince with every sip.

Since he was awake anyway, Gilbert decided to head to the lab early. Perhaps he could speak to Mary before the others arrived.

But she was not there. Gilbert waited, re-reading the same paragraph of a journal article a dozen times and checking his pocket watch so often that eventually he took it off and shoved it in a desk drawer.

At five minutes after nine, Dr. Appleton and Dr. Cabot arrived with Mary on their heels. Gilbert's heart sank, wondering whether she had waited downstairs to follow them in, hoping not to be alone with him.

It was an interminable morning. Dr. Lowell, late again, was peevish because his microscope had lost a screw and he could not find a replacement; Dr. Cabot was frantic, having misplaced last week's patient logs; Dr. Appleton was seized by sneezing fits so violent that he rattled the glassware in its trays. Every few minutes, Gilbert would look up from his own work to check on Mary, who was measuring sedimentation with her usual precision. He never caught her looking back.

At noon, Gilbert dismissed the lot of them, telling them all to take a long lunch and come back in the afternoon with their heads screwed on straight. His subordinates fairly bounced out of the lab, as glad to put it behind them as Gilbert was to see them go.

Mary lingered at her bench.

When Dr. Lowell slammed the door shut behind him, Gilbert approached her, feeling hollow with nerves.

"Dr. Parkman, can we talk?"

She snapped her notebook shut. "Not here."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Gilbert and Mary dawdled along the elm-lined promenade of the Commonwealth Avenue mall. Even in the heat of midsummer, the stately trees formed a cool tunnel of shade, but Gilbert barely noticed. He was acutely aware that Mary had not taken his arm as they walked. She held herself apart, maintaining enough distance that they did not brush one another, even accidentally.

When it became clear that Mary would not be the first to speak, Gilbert took a steadying breath.

"Dr. Parkman, please allow me to apologize." He did not look at her, keeping his eyes on the path ahead.

Mary let out the breath she had been holding. "You needn't apologize. I shouldn't have gone to your house at all. That was my fault, and I'm sorry."

"I'm not sorry that you told me what was on your mind," Gilbert replied. "I'm only sorry for how it ended. I should not have said any of that. Shouldn't have . . ."

Mary had stopped in a small pool of light that had somehow broken through the canopy. Gilbert turned back to her.

"I shouldn't have run away," she whispered. "That was cowardly of me. I'm sorry."

"Please don't apologize to me," he pleaded. "I shouldn't have . . ."

"I only . . ."

"I didn't mean . . ."

Mary held up her palm and looked Gilbert in the eye. "I'm sorry I left like that. But I had to leave, or I . . . wouldn't have stopped."

Gilbert caught his breath. "I . . . I would have," he stammered.

Mary did not contradict him. But a certain twist at the corner of her mouth told Gilbert that she had bitten off a reply.

"I would have," he repeated.

"Why?"

Gilbert did not know quite how to answer that. "I . . . well . . . your reputation. My reputation, for that matter . . ."

Mary shook her head. "I meant what I said last night. There's no one watching."

Gilbert swallowed. "You're wrong, Mary. Dr. Lowell . . . he filed a complaint with the Dean's office."

Mary looked blank. "A complaint?"

"That our relationship is . . . not strictly professional."

"Why, that little . . ."

Gilbert saw the familiar flare of outrage cross her features, but could not muster it himself. Very quietly, he asked, "Is he wrong?"

Mary's face relaxed. "No. He's not wrong. A festering little carbuncle, for sure. But not wrong."

"I don't want you to get hurt, Mary. I would have stopped, and not just because of Lowell. It . . . it just wouldn't have been right," Gilbert said, wondering how something that sounded so incontrovertible in his mind could come out sounding so feeble.

"Perhaps," Mary replied. "But nothing about this feels right. It feels like . . . a betrayal. Disloyalty."

Gilbert deflated. "Yes. I know."

He sought a nearby bench and slumped, head in his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair, not caring if his curls stood on end. A moment later, a brush of skirt against his knee told him that Mary had taken the seat beside him.

"I never expected you," she said in a quiet voice. "Never looked for you. I thought I would just live my life usefully. That the work would be enough. And then you arrived. At first I didn't notice you any more than I noticed Appleton or Cabot or the postman. But you weren't like them. And after Christmas . . . I could talk to you like I couldn't talk to anyone. Not my parents. Not my friends."

"You have friends?" Gilbert asked, attempting levity.

"I'm very personable," she said, earning a faint chuckle.

They sat in silence, watching pedestrians pass by in ones and twos under the overlapping chaos of chartreuse and emerald.

"I know what you mean about it feeling like a betrayal," Gilbert offered at last. "I confess that's what kept me awake last night. Feeling wretched. Like I'd forgotten Anne, somehow."

Mary reached out a hand and Gilbert took it in his own.

"It's foolish," he continued. "I never could forget her. But any sort of happiness feels disloyal. The lab is different — it's satisfying, rewarding, even thrilling. But it's all for Anne. And for the people who won't die of typhoid because of the work I do. This is different. It would be for me, and that makes me feel like a traitor."

She squeezed his hand. "It's not Anne holding you back. I doubt she'd want to see you deny yourself happiness on her account."

"She wouldn't," Gilbert agreed. "I suspect the same is true for Henry."

"Oh, I don't know," Mary smirked. "I think he'd be glad to know that I pined a bit. But no, he wouldn't condone endless purgatory."

Gilbert looked down at their linked hands, fingers intertwined now. "I'm sorry I never met him. He sounds like an intriguing fellow."

"He was," Mary smiled, somewhat distantly.

"Mary?" Gilbert ventured, calling her back. "I would leave the lab. You could stay. I'd find something else. I could teach. I could find another lab."

She rolled her eyes. "I don't think that would exactly endear me to anyone at Harvard. They love you."

"I don't care."

"And they would make things difficult for me if they thought they'd lost you to another institution because of me," Mary reasoned.

Gilbert could not say that she was wrong.

"Maybe not another lab, then," he said cautiously. "I've been thinking a lot lately. About general practice. It's what I wanted to do in the first place. And it's been on my mind more and more ever since you let me come to St. James that first time. The people there need a full-time doctor. The work we do at the lab is important, but general practice . . . I can't explain, really. But I feel . . . called to it."

"I can see you in general practice," Mary said, considering. "You'd maybe need to do a residency first — brush up on your clinical skills a bit."

"I'm doing much better!" Gilbert protested. "Didn't you see me debride Tom Ryan's hand yesterday? Full of dirt and shards of glass, too."

"Oh, I saw. And heard. But general practice would be more than just minor illnesses and the walking wounded."

"I know," Gilbert breathed. Could he soothe a fevered brow? Hold a dying hand? Comfort a grieving family? The thought elicited a longing so irrational and so profound that he knew it couldn't be anything but God calling him. For so long, it had seemed impossible, but now . . .

"I could leave the lab," Mary offered.

Gilbert pressed her hand, stricken. "Absolutely not. Mary, I can't ask you to give up your work."

"And I wouldn't, even if you did," she smirked. "But . . . there might be another way. I have a classmate who teaches histology at Boston University. She's always trying to lure me away from big, bad Harvard. I've been much too proud of having clawed my way into Harvard to think of giving it up, but . . . I went to see her early this morning."

"You went to see her?"

Mary nodded. "That's why I was late. She was . . . a little surprised to find me on her doorstep, begging for a job. But she says BU still wants me for their tuberculosis lab. There's no effective vaccine yet, but they're getting closer. I might even be able to take on some chemistry students of my own, if I want to."**

"You'd be wonderful."

"How do you know?" Mary asked, her scathing tone somewhat softened by the smile that accompanied it. "Perhaps I'd be be a holy terror, tormenting my poor students if their glassware weren't perfectly spotless every time."

Gilbert smiled. "I believe you would. And they'd never forget it."

There was something Gilbert needed to know, but he wasn't quite sure how to ask it. "Your friend at BU . . ."

"Eliza," Mary supplied.

"Eliza. Is she . . ." he trailed off.

Mary understood. She smirked and let him dangle for a moment before replying. "Eliza has two lovely daughters. Her husband is a high school English teacher. I think you'd like him."***

Gilbert exhaled. "We might have rather a lot to talk about." Then, just to be sure there was no misunderstanding: "But . . . Boston University . . . they hired Eliza? They didn't care that she was . . . married?"

Mary smiled. "BU isn't Harvard. Our old dean, Dean Talbot, was always very good to us. He helped found the New England Female Medical College. His wife, Emily, fought hard to get girls admitted to Boston Latin Academy so that we would be prepared for university. And when that failed, she helped start the Girls' Latin School, free to any girl who could pass the entrance. I wouldn't be here at all without them."****

"So you . . ." Gilbert could hardly trust himself to form words, but he pushed on, not sure whether this fragile feeling was courage or fear. "You . . . wouldn't have to choose?"

"Maybe not."

They sat together in stunned silence for a long moment. At last, Gilbert took a deep breath, held it, let it out very, very slowly.

"When I was young, I used to play a game whenever I was with Anne. I'd keep a mental count of all the times I nearly kissed her in an evening, but resisted."*****

Mary snorted. "Were you trying for low numbers or high?"

"Oh, low, to be sure. I was working on self control. In the beginning, it would be 25 or 30, easily, but after I while, I could reliably get into the low teens."

He felt a soft laugh shake her shoulders, but did not look over to see her smile.

"In college," Mary said, "I used to count how many excuses Henry could find to stay in my general vicinity at receptions and dances. I was quite cruel, always ducking into the next room to see if he would follow. I would drop small things so he could have an excuse to pick them up and return them to me."

"You? Drop things?"

Mary waved an airy hand, "He didn't know me very well yet."

"Clearly."

Mary shifted her weight and murmured, "Is there a reason you brought up that particular memory right now?"

Gilbert turned to face her. "I regret them very much, Mary. All those kisses I almost gave her and never did. And I'm awfully tired of living with so many regrets."

Mary reached across the small space between them and cupped his face in her nearly-steady hands. With astonishing simplicity, she leaned forward and touched her lips to his. Gilbert breathed once, then gathered her into his arms. Let people watch if they liked.

Sometime later, Mary leaned back far enough to look him in the eye.

"Gilbert?"

"Hmmm?"

"I *might* be able to marry you."

He snorted. "Would you like to wait for me to ask you this time?"

She smiled. "I'm not really fond of waiting."

"Me neither."

* * *

* _Anne of Avonlea_ , chapter 27

**By the early years of the 20th century, the Boston University School of Medicine had female lecturers. In 1908, a team from Boston University took second prize at the International Tuberculosis Congress for its work in analyzing the disease and collecting specimens. The tuberculosis vaccine in use today was developed at the Pasteur Institute in France between 1905 and 1921, in cooperation with a worldwide research effort.

***Although it was very difficult for married women to attend university or professional school in the early 1900s, the women who became university-affiliated doctors were rare enough that getting married did not always mean leaving their jobs. Think of Marie Curie, a genius by any name. I'm not saying it was easy, but it was sometimes possible, particularly if their universities supported them.

Dr. Eliza Taylor Ransom (1867-1955) was one of my inspirations in creating Mary's character. She was a lecturer in Histology at Boston University and went on to found a maternity hospital in Boston after her own experiences in childbirth made her search for ways to relieve laboring women's pain. Her husband was indeed a high school English teacher.

I know you come here for the fanfic, not the history, but here's a little taste of Dr. Eliza Taylor Ransom's voice from a newspaper interview entitled, "Says Both Sexes Wear Too Much Clothing" (she believed that fresh, cold air was healthy and that restrictive clothing was responsible for many infirmities):

"Dr. Eliza Taylor Ransom, noted Boston woman physician, contends that the sooner men become accustomed to seeing women barer, the happier and the healthier the world will be. 'When little boys grow up used to seeing people with fewer clothes, men will become sane the sooner,' declared Dr. Ransom yesterday. 'There's nothing immoral in scarcity of clothes. Girls should wear short, open skirts and no petticoats. They should wear low necks and short sleeves. I firmly believe in the thinnest of stockings and the sheerest of teddies . . . Men have really beautiful necks. You may tell them that Dr. Ransom admits it. And why cover them up, smother them and torture them is more than women know. The sooner men leave off their hideous collars and let the fresh air strike their chests and necks, the better off they'll be . . . It's high time for a reformation in clothes. It's time for the girls to doff each superfluous stitch. It's time for men to bury their collars.'"

If anyone wants to write me a sequel in which Mary and Eliza are besties and Gilbert is routinely scandalized, my PMs are open.

****Israel Tisdale Talbot (1829-1899) and Emily Fairbanks Talbot (1834-1900). There's another pair that could use their own novel. Emily was a teacher, organizer, suffragette, and education advocate who was a friend of Louisa May Alcott (she also corresponded with Charles Darwin, taking him to task for some of his arguments about gendered capacity for learning). Israel helped found the New England Female Medical College and served a very long term as the first dean of the Boston University School of Medicine (1873-1899). Though both Israel and Emily died shortly before this story takes place, they were both extremely influential in BUSM's early history — instrumental to the way the University treated female students and faculty. Their daughter Marion was a professor (and the Dean of Women at the University of Chicago for many years) and implemented her mother's idea for the Association of Collegiate Alumnae, a fore-runner of the American Association of University Women.

*****Catiegirl's "Golden Days"


	63. Chapter 30: The Sun and the Other Stars

Chapter 30: The Sun and the Other Stars

* * *

 _"It is never quite safe to think we have done with life. When we imagine we have finished our story, fate has a trick of turning the page and showing us yet another chapter. These two people each thought their hearts belonged irrevocably to the past; but they both found their walk up that hill very pleasant."_

 _Rainbow Valley_ , Chapter 13: The House on the Hill

* * *

 _29 July 1902_

 _Dear Dean Hilliard,_

 _I write today to resign my appointment as a member of the Harvard Medical School faculty. Please accept my regrets in this matter, as well as my sincere thanks for the opportunity to contribute to such a valuable project over the past two years._

 _Lest any speculation regarding my resignation should reach your ears, I feel it necessary to inform you of my future plans. Though I have worked in a research capacity for many years, it has always been my ambition to have my own general practice. Dr. Lodge at Massachusetts General Hospital has consented to take me on as a special resident beginning in November, with the aim of refreshing my clinical skills toward this end._

 _If you wish me to stay at my post while a replacement is hired to supervise the typhoid lab, I will do so, though I will be leaving the country for several weeks beginning in the middle of September. As to my replacement, my professional opinion is that there is no one better suited to run the typhoid lab than Dr. Mary Parkman. However, since I understand that Dr. Parkman has also tendered her resignation today, I would recommend that you promote either Dr. John Appleton or Dr. Thomas Cabot to a supervisory role. Both are fine researchers and I believe that either would grow into the role if given a chance._

 _Of Dr. Eliot Lowell I can give no similar recommendation. Doubtless you have your own reasons for keeping him employed at Harvard. If such is the case, my recommendation would be that you take him on as an assistant in your own office, where you will have ample occasion to observe his competence and character for yourself._

 _Yours Respectfully,_

 _Dr. Gilbert J. Blythe_

* * *

 _4 August 1902_

 _GILBERT BLYTHE!_

 _Your mother left here not two minutes ago after running over to tell me that you are coming home next month TO GET MARRIED? ! ?_

 _When I saw her flying up the lane I was afraid that something was wrong and then she couldn't even catch her breath and when she finally came out with it I nearly fainted dead away. You are getting MARRIED?_ _How did this happen_ _?_

 _Phil will be so happy. And so smug. She has been hinting at something for weeks and I told her that she was imagining things. Of course, you mentioned Dr. Parkman in your letters but you never said —_ _why did you never tell me you were courting her_ _? Have you written to Phil? If you haven't, you had better do it this instant. She will be in raptures._

 _And Fred doesn't know yet! He's out haying and I meant to go tell him first but then I thought I must go to the post office and post this letter straight away, so I will go find him on the way. There had better be a thick letter waiting for me when I get there, explaining all of this!_

 _I will say no more now. Except CONGRATULATIONS, Gil! I expect there is quite a story to be told and I demand to hear it._

 _All my love,_

 _Diana_

* * *

The cab rattled down Brattle Street in Cambridge, carrying Gilbert and Mary toward Mount Auburn Cemetery. An hour ago, they had closed up the St. James clinic together, neither of them speaking very much until they had climbed the steps to the street.

"Are you sure you want to come with me?" Mary asked. "You don't have to."

Gilbert took her hand in his. "I'm sure. I want to see where you go. And pay my respects. Maybe . . . apologize."

"Apologize?"

Gilbert rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "To Henry. It's . . . I mean . . . if we do meet someday in the Sweet By-and-By, I'll probably spend the first few millennia apologizing. Better make a good-faith start now."

Mary pursed her lips. "In that scenario, you can't think of anything better to do with eternity?"

Gilbert said nothing, but squeezed Mary's hand.

In truth, he really was a bit nervous. What do you say in the presence of your bride's dead husband? Was he going to ask forgiveness? Permission?

He had gotten a bit of practice on the latter, at least. Once Mary had made it perfectly clear that she had no intention of enduring a prolonged engagement, Gilbert had gone directly to Francis and Rose O'Connor to ask permission to marry their daughter.

Over coffee and shortbread, Gilbert told Mary's parents his own story, and Anne's. Not everything, and not in lavish detail, but enough. He surprised himself by relating the outline in a calm, steady voice, unbroken from beginning to end. For years, any mention of Anne had made his stomach clench in panic. But now, he found himself describing her to the O'Connors, not with the studied steel of self-control, but with tender emotion that never erupted into horror. Perhaps it was only that he had had more practice now, after months of speaking her name aloud. Or perhaps it was that sharing his grief — turning it into a story — had taught him how to visit it, for a time, without falling directly back into the little east gable bedroom at Green Gables.

When Gilbert had finished, Mrs. O'Connor patted his hand, smiling through shining eyes. "I only need to know one thing, Dr. Blythe. Do you love Mary?"

"Yes," Gilbert said simply.

"Then, by all means, marry her," Mrs. O'Connor beamed.

Mr. O'Connor chortled. "As if anything we could say would stop her if that's what she wanted. Or persuade her if she didn't, for that matter."

Gilbert smiled at the kind, understanding parents who wanted nothing but Mary's happiness. He didn't know them well yet, but he would, and the thought was a small, unexpected joy in itself.

"Just promise me one thing, Dr. Blythe," Mr. O'Connor said.

"Of course."

"Take care of her," Mr. O'Connor said in the most sober tone in his register. "It was . . . not easy to bring her back. Mary's a strong one, to be sure. She'd never tell anyone that she needs looking after, but she does."

"I will," Gilbert promised.

"Then best of luck to you, Dr. Blythe," Mr. O'Connor grinned, reaching his hand out to shake Gilbert's.

Back in the cab, Mary was watching the city go by, an expression of calm contentment on her face. Gilbert studied her with interest, reflecting that she really was an extraordinary chameleon. Here, in the cab with him, her dark hair done in one of her soft Sunday styles, Mary was serene and relaxed. At Harvard, she had cloaked herself in armor, creating a protective shell with every carefully chosen button and controlled strand of hair. There had only been a few times when he had seen her completely unguarded, uncalculated. That Mary was magnificent. What others might be left to discover?

"Mary?"

"Hmm?"

"I've been meaning to ask you — do you want to live on Marlborough Street? Or should I look for a house somewhere else?"

She considered for a moment. "I don't mind Marlborough Street. But will we be able to afford the rent?"

Gilbert smiled shyly. "I've talked to the landlord. He's getting older — I think he might sell it to me."

Mary's eyes widened. "You want to buy it? The house on Marlborough Street?" Then she narrowed her gaze. "Just exactly how much did Harvard pay you anyway?"

Gilbert grimaced and braced himself. "Seven thousand dollars a year."*

" _Seven thousand dollars!?_ "

"Well, not anymore!" he protested.

Mary was huffing with indignation. "Seven _thousand_ dollars? And to think I once considered buying my own lemon drops!"

"You'll make as much at BU as I will as a resident," Gilbert observed. "And after that, there's not exactly a lot of money in serving the St. James community."

"Oh, I imagine you'll charm your way into enough Marlborough Street clients to make ends meet," Mary replied, not quite bitterly.

"Do you want the house?"

She blinked at him. "Do you?"

"I've been living in rented places my whole adult life. Maybe it's just the farmer's son in me, but I'd like to own my house. The Marlborough Street house has been far too big for me, but . . . maybe it won't always feel that way."

Mary relented, smiled, leaned in to kiss Gilbert softly on the cheek. "Buy it, then. I'd be happy to help you fill it up."

Gilbert felt his heart skip, then hammer. "What will you do . . . if we have children?"

A familiar expression overtook Mary's face, the one that seemed to dare him to contradict her. "Marie Curie has a baby. And a lab of her own. Why shouldn't I?"**

Gilbert breathed his relief. It wouldn't be easy, but if anyone could make it work, it was Mary. He had a sudden vision of his own mother in the Marlborough Street house, cuddling a dark-haired toddler, and found himself momentarily speechless.

"Speaking of houses, see that big yellow one?" Mary pointed out the carriage window. "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lived there. The poet."

Gilbert leaned over her to get a better look. The boxy yellow mansion with its white details and crown of white fencing reminded him of a frosted cake. "Really? It's quite a house."***

"It was General Washington's headquarters in 1775. Longfellow was very interested in history; perhaps that's why he wanted it. His daughter Alice still lives there."

" _Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair_ ," Gilbert quoted from "The Children's Hour."

Mary smiled. "Elsie loved that poem. Henry used to recite it to her:

 _A whisper, and then a silence:  
Yet I know by their merry eyes  
They are plotting and planning together  
To take me by surprise_."

Gilbert got into the spirit:

" _They almost devour me with kisses,  
Their arms about me entwine,  
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen  
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!_"

Mary's laughter reverberated like the musical clinking of immaculate glassware. "Exactly. I wonder how the Longfellow girls feel, though, knowing that the whole world remembers them as the _blue-eyed banditti_. Do they mind that everyone has had such an intimate peek into their home?"

With a sudden dropping of his stomach, Gilbert realized that he knew something else that had happened in the yellow house.

 _She burned to death in front of the children. After, he grew his famous beard to cover his own scars._

Gilbert shuddered.

Trying to cover the abrupt shift in his mood, he asked, "Did you know that Longfellow translated Dante's _Inferno_?"

Mary nodded. "Yes. He translated the whole _Divine Comedy_ , not just _Inferno_."

Gilbert drew a blank. "What do you mean?"

"Dante's _Divine Comedy_ is divided into three books," Mary explained. "First is _Inferno_ , then _Purgatorio_ , then _Paradiso_. Did you never read it?"

"I may have only read the beginning . . ." Gilbert trailed off.

Mary was saying something else. Something about a series of sonnets that the grieving Longfellow had written after completing his translation. But Gilbert wasn't listening.

 _Three books?_

"How does it end?" he asked, interrupting.

" _The Divine Comedy_?"

"Yes."

Mary thought for a moment. "Beatrice guides Dante through Paradise. It's . . . difficult to describe, exactly. Dante's Paradise isn't a place of never-ending joy. It's more a place of . . . resolved paradoxes. A place where irreconcilable things suddenly fit together. In the end, Dante returns to the embrace of God's love. It's not that he understands everything, but he contemplates the mystery of the Trinity and it all falls into place and brings him back into alignment with God. He returns to the place where he should have been all along. The last lines of the last canto are,

 _But already my desire and my will,  
_ _Were being turned like a wheel, all at one speed  
_ _By the Love which moves the sun and the other stars_."

"The other stars?" Gilbert echoed.

Mary took his hand in hers. "Every star is a sun to someone, and the sun is just a star, even though it's ours."

The Longfellow house disappeared behind a screen of trees, but Gilbert was no longer looking out the window. He bent his head and kissed Mary gently, breathing her breath, feeling her warmth under his lips. Then he put an arm around her and pulled her in close to him, safe and sound.

* * *

Mount Auburn Cemetery was like nothing Gilbert had ever seen before. He had assumed that it would be a graveyard, perhaps shaded by a few lonely trees. Instead, they passed through Egyptian gates and into an Elysian park. Trees of every description shaded winding paths and mirrored ponds, giving the impression of an enormous garden more vibrant even than the Arboretum. Verdant hills and flower-carpeted nooks were studded with monuments, many of them beautiful and fanciful sculptures in marble or bronze: angels and muses, an ever-faithful dog, a many-chambered nautilus six feet tall. Acre upon acre of vines and blossoms, grottos and benches, crowded with songbirds and the buzzing of bees.

"This . . . is a cemetery?" Gilbert asked, amazed.

"Yes," Mary replied. "It's supposed to be a retreat from the city. A place to contemplate the melancholy and the sublime."

Gilbert was not sure what to make of Mount Auburn. It pretended to be a natural place, with all its blooms and leaves, but it was nothing like a forest or a meadow. Every planted flower and pruned tree was set out on purpose to give the illusion of organic growth. But nothing grew by chance, nothing ugly intruded. It was beautiful, but also unsettling, as if by entering the gates they had left behind the logic of the ordinary world.

Mary led Gilbert up one lush trail and down another, emerging in a little glade bordered by leafy lilac hedges, long past blooming. In the center, a many-faceted boulder of rose quartz bore a bronze plaque: PARKMAN.

Without hesitating, Mary approached the stone and laid a hand upon it. Gilbert hung back, still slightly overawed by the place.

Mary saw his reluctance and dispersed the reverent silence. "Henry loved this rock," she said, smiling. "He had a passion for rocks — always on the lookout for the right marble or granite for a building project. This pink one was supposed to be part of a courtyard somewhere, but when he saw it, he kept it for our yard. I remember the first time Elsie leapt from the top. I was afraid she'd break a leg, but she landed on her feet and laughed. When it came time to choose a memorial, Mr. and Mrs. Parkman wanted something elegant. An obelisk, maybe. But I wasn't going to sit here every Sunday next to some solemn monument to their excellent taste."

"It's beautiful."

Mary held out a hand. Taking it, Gilbert stood beside her, contemplating the quartz.

"I don't know how you're still standing, Mary," he said.

"Same as you," she replied.

"I never lost a child."

"Didn't you? I've seen you with children. Maybe you never knew your own, but you lost them just the same."

Gilbert swallowed. It was only true.

"I feel as though I should say something," he confessed.

"There's no need," Mary replied, squeezing his hand. "Just be here with me."

* * *

*This would have been about average for Harvard faculty, but also about three times the average salary of a college professor in the US in 1900-1905. For comparison, the average yearly income for all workers in the US in 1900 was about $450. Mary probably would have been on the lower end of Harvard's pay grade for non-tenured researchers/instructors, making something like $1,200-1,500 per year. Still an excellent salary at the time. But _seven thousand dollars!?_

**Marie Curie had two daughters: Irene (b. 1897) and Eve (b. 1904). She won the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1903 (with her husband, Pierre) and the Nobel Prize in Chemistry in 1911 (solo). In 1935, her daughter, Irene Joliot-Curie shared the Noble Prize in Chemistry with her own husband, Frederic Joliot-Curie (they also had two children: Helene (b. 1927) and Pierre (b. 1932)). Both Irene and Frederic changed their surnames to Joliot-Curie when they married in 1926.

***The Longfellow house is on Brattle Street in Cambridge, about a mile from Mount Auburn Cemetery. If you start near Copley Square in Boston, cross the Charles River at the Harvard Bridge, and take Massachusetts Avenue through Cambridge on your way to Mount Auburn Cemetery, you go right past it.


	64. Chapter 31: Slaying Dragons

Chapter 31: Slaying Dragons

* * *

A week before they left for Avonlea, Gilbert took Mary to an elegant dinner at the Omni Parker House downtown. Mary had raised an eyebrow at the extravagance, but acquiesced when Gilbert protested that he needed to take her on one respectable outing before they were wed.

"People at home will ask to hear how all this came about. I'd like to be able to tell them at least one story that doesn't involve carbolic acid or smallpox," Gilbert pleaded, laughing when Mary rolled her eyes at him.

He thought she looked lovely in the same dress she had worn at the Christmas concert. Her dark eyes were inky under the elaborate chandeliers of the dining room, her unadorned throat a fascinating curve that shimmered with the candles.

"I talked to Mrs. Milligan about staying on with us," Gilbert said over their meal. "She said she'd be delighted."

"Good," Mary replied.

"I'm still not sure I believe that you can't cook," he teased.

"You should. I can't."

"Isn't cooking just temperature and measurement?"

Mary considered. "That's what I thought, too. But it turns out there's a bit more to it than that, and I never got the knack of it. I found it very . . . frustrating. Besides," she smiled sweetly, "if it's just temperature and measurement, there's no reason you shouldn't be just as adept as I am."

Gilbert affected a self-deprecating air. "I am nowhere near the chemist you are, Dr. Parkman."

"That's true," she agreed. "But you're passable."

"I'll have to get Phil to tell you some of her stories next week," Gilbert chuckled. "I think she still gets Jo to make the potatoes when company is coming."

"Are Phil and Jo staying at White Sands?" Mary asked.

"No, they're going to stay with Diana and Fred. Phil and Diana hardly ever get to see one another, and they're looking forward to a proper visit."

"My parents have never stayed in a hotel before," Mary said as she cut her meat. "I think my mother has packed every stitch of clothing they own."

"For a week-long trip?" Gilbert asked.

Mary shrugged. "I think she's worried about making a good first impression. She's had the pleasure of meeting my in-laws before and it didn't go well last time. I reminded her that Mrs. Parkman wouldn't have liked her even if she had been dripping with diamonds when they met, and that your family aren't Brahmins, but she's been fretting."

"My parents will love yours," Gilbert assured her.

"What will they think of me?" Mary asked.

Gilbert tapped a finger against his lips. "Well, if my mother's letters . . . and telegrams . . . are any indication, you may need to be on your guard that she doesn't smother you with kisses."

Mary breathed a laugh.

"And she mightn't be the only one," Gilbert teased. "My last letter from Phil was nearly all capital letters."

"In that case, I needn't worry too much over my trousseau," Mary replied coolly.

Gilbert smiled at her. She had been the one who suggested that they be married in Avonlea, rather than in Boston. Travel would be difficult for Gilbert's friends and family, particularly his father. They had planned a celebratory dinner with Mary's brothers and their families upon their return to the city, but only Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor would travel to Avonlea for the wedding.

Cora and John would host the ceremony itself, inviting the entire neighborhood by the sound of things. Though, Gilbert reflected, there was not much difference between the neighborhood and the family at this point. The Wrights at Lone Willow Farm, Davy and Minnie Keith at Green Gables, Dora and Ralph Andrews at the old Lynde farm, the Barrys and Harrisons of course, plus Aunt Josephine and Uncle George and Minnie May's family at the old Bell place. . .

"There will be rather a lot of introductions to make," Gilbert grimaced.

"I look forward to them," Mary replied stoutly.

Gilbert smiled, wondering privately what, exactly, Avonlea _would_ think of Dr. Mary Parkman.

"Is there ever anything that daunts you, Mary?" he asked.

"Well . . ."

Gilbert looked up, surprised to see uncertainty cloud Mary's frank, brown eyes. She shook her head and went back to her meal.

"What is it, Mary?"

She set her knife down with a click. Swallowing once, Mary met Gilbert's hazel gaze.

"As you know, Henry and I were happily married for five years. _Very_ happily married."

Gilbert made no reply, but his eyebrows had ascended to a lofty height.

"And I have been wondering," Mary continued, determinedly, "whether a sample size of one could be said to be . . . umm . . . _representative_."

She tossed the final word onto the table in a great hurry before becoming intently interested in the vegetables on her plate. Gilbert could not keep a small smile from twisting the corner of his mouth.

"Why, Dr. Parkman, I do believe you are blushing," he teased.

She looked up and met his eye. Gilbert was startled to see a flicker of genuine trepidation cross her face.

Gilbert reined in his smile, leaving only a certain merry crinkle around his eyes. He cleared his throat.

"Mary — that is to say, _Dr. Parkman_ — I have it on the very best authority that a sample size of one is entirely insufficient for the extrapolation of sound conclusions. However, in light of the fact that your sample size in this matter exceeds my own by one, I shall defer to your expertise."

Mary's eyes went very round, and Gilbert chuckled to himself.

"Gilbert!" she whispered harshly. "Do you mean to say . . ."

He smiled back placidly, then took a sip of wine with as as much equanimity as if they had been discussing a new batch of lab results. Privately, he enjoyed her astonishment. It had always given Gilbert a thrill to get a rise out of the Avonlea girls, and Mary Parkman was a much more challenging target than Josie Pye.

His face fell in the next instant, as her expression changed again. Her nostrils flared and her jaw set in . . . could it be . . . anger?

"My apologies," Gilbert murmured, his delight curling in on itself like a burning scrap of paper. "I seem to have said something amiss."

He was genuinely shocked when Mary brought her hand down onto the table with a vicious slap that rattled the silverware. Diners at the surrounding tables looked around for the source of the noise, then turned back quickly to avoid catching either Mary's or Gilbert's eye.

"Mary, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have . . ."

"I _hate_ disease," Mary growled. Her brow was deeply furrowed and her gaze was fixed on a point in the middle distance somewhere over Gilbert's left shoulder.

Baffled, Gilbert could only stare.

Mary followed her own train of thought at breakneck speed.

"When we think of disease, we think of the suffering endured by those who are ill, yes. We try to ease their pain and cure them, if we can. But disease is _so much more_ than sickness. It is pointless, useless waste! Disease ruins everything that is good in the world, to absolutely no end whatsoever. If I had three lifetimes to live, I would dedicate each of them to fighting it with everything in my power!"

She sat back, slightly breathless, with a look of fire in her eye.

Gilbert was perplexed. Certainly, he agreed with Mary's emphatic speech, but he could not quite follow the logic of her conversational leap.

"Are we still talking about . . ."

"Yes, we are," Mary said, piercing him with the direct look he recognized from a hundred hard-fought arguments. Her cheeks were flushed, not with ladylike embarrassment, but with indignant rage. "Disease robs so many of so much. Not just the people who fall ill. Their communities suffer. Their nations suffer. And the people who love them suffer unspeakably. If you mean to tell me that you, Dr. Gilbert Blythe, are, shall we say, _innocent_ , at nearly 40 years of age, because disease robbed you of a married life, then I say damn all disease!"

By this point, Gilbert was leaning far back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. The only thing preventing him from lacing his fingers behind his head, elbows flying to either side, was the constricting nature of his dinner jacket. If he still had eyebrows, they had decamped to altitudes invisible.

"Am I to understand," Gilbert ventured, "that in the annals of plague and pestilence, you are counting my rather prolonged state of virtue as one of the ravages of disease?"

"Well, yes," she sniffed. "I suppose I am."

Gilbert laughed immoderately. He could not help himself, even knowing that he was attracting another round of stares from fascinated diners.

Mary lifted her nose in the air and took a long, quiet sip of water.

"Mary!" Gilbert gasped, attempting to bring himself under enough control to prevent their being ejected from the premises.

After several gulps of air, he finally calmed himself into spasms of quieter chuckling. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with a napkin and shook his head.

"I had not realized that my innocence subtracted from the sum total of human happiness," he said with mock formality.

"It does." Mary was smiling, too, but a bit wistfully. "Don't you see, Gilbert? Life is beautiful, and love is beautiful, and disease destroys that beauty wherever it attacks. You should have lived a full life, all these years."

"You think I haven't?"

"Have you?"

"Many people live celibate lives, Mary," he replied in quieter tones. "Lives of devotion and purpose. Some never even think of . . . er . . . earthly delights. And they are fulfilled."

"And you, Gilbert?"

There was no trace of mockery in her earnest face.

Gilbert took a steadying breath.

"No. I admit that I am . . . inclined toward worldly matters. Though I don't see why my lack of experience is a loss for humanity in general."

"Surely you own a mirror, Dr. Blythe," Mary said, causing Gilbert to choke on his wine.

When he had recovered, she cocked her head to one side and gave him an appraising look.

"May I ask an impertinent question?" she asked.

"I believe you already have."

"Another, then."

He nodded, more than a little curious to discover what other dazzling twists this conversation might take.

"Where would you be, right now, this very minute, if Anne hadn't died?"

Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn't been that. All trace of humor left Gilbert's blanched face. He knew the answer, of course. The pictures, so clear and specific, that had tormented him in the deep watches of five and a half thousand nights danced momentarily before his eyes. But he couldn't share them. Not now. Not here, in the tastefully lit dining room of the Omni Parker House.

Mary studied his face, then reached her hand across the table, palm up.

"I'll tell you where I would be, if it weren't for diphtheria. I'd be in a yellow house in Cambridge, tidying up after supper. Elsie would be eleven — her birthday was two weeks ago, you know. Maybe she would be working her geometry assignment at the dining room table with James. He'd be nearly eight. There would be others, too. Maybe a baby crawling across the floor. Henry would be putting the little ones up to some mischief, building a fort in the sitting room or a ramp down the cellar stairs. I wouldn't be a doctor, and that would be a bitter pill to swallow. But I'd take it gladly, if it meant having them safe by me."

Gilbert saw her only dimly, through the shimmer of his own tears. She couldn't read his thoughts, he knew. Were her own ghosts so similar to his? He reached for his water glass, covering his need to swallow several times.

After an overlong silence, he replied slowly, not quite trusting his own voice.

"I'd still be a doctor," he began. "Not here. In some little town on the Island. House. Kids. Anne."

Gilbert thought that he could say more, but found that he could not. The brief words conjured such acute images, down to the minute details of dimpled hands and downy red curls, that his breath caught in his throat.

Mary nodded.

"Yes. And that's why the work we've done is so important. It is too late for Anne. And for Henry. And for my dear little Elsie and James. But there will come a day when people grow up and grow old together without fearing diphtheria or typhoid or any number of diseases. We've helped clear their paths, without them even realizing that we were the ones who did it. Our work will give them the gift of their lives. Their full, fearless, disease-free lives."

"Perhaps," Gilbert replied. "Though I think people will always find something to fear."

"Maybe so. But I intend to take some of the top contenders off the list."

Gilbert felt a rush of affection for the fierce woman sitting across from him. He took her hand, covering it in his own.

"I believe you could slay dragons, Mary. I have a vision of you, armed with microscope and boiling flask, battling chivalrously to defend Virtue." He smiled suddenly. "Or to defeat it, I suppose."

She laid her other palm lightly over the top of their clasped hands.

"Indeed, Dr. Blythe. Though there are more direct ways of winning that particular battle."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **"Sweetheart, the beautiful coming years will bring us the fulfillment of our home of dreams, in which we will always vaccinate our children on the schedule recommended by their pediatricians."**

 ** _26 September 2017_**

 ** _Dear elizasky,_**

 ** _We have much pleasure in informing you that your charming story, "The Sun and the Other Stars," has won the prize of twenty-five dollars offered in our recent competition. We enclose the check herewith. We are arranging for the publication of the story in several prominent newspapers, and we also intend to have it printed in pamphlet form for distribution in physicians' offices. Thanking you for the interest you have shown in vaccination, we remain,_**

 ** _Yours very truly,_**

 ** _The Centers for Disease Control_**


	65. Chapter 32: Apples and Pomegranates

Chapter 32: Apples and Pomegranates

* * *

On the morning of his wedding, Gilbert Blythe rose from his childhood bed half an hour before dawn. In truth, he had not really slept, but had decided that he should rest as long as he could. It would be a long day.

His parents' bedroom door was closed, though he could hear them beginning to stir. As much as Gilbert appreciated their tender concern, he could not bear their kind inquiries just at the moment. He dressed hurriedly in work clothes, leaving his neatly pressed wedding suit hanging expectantly on its hook behind the door. He crept down the stairs as silently as possible, slipped on his boots, and tiptoed out into the lightening world.

Pink streaks crept up over the tops of the firs. It would be warm and clear later in the day, but a light fog still cloaked the paths through the trees. No matter. Gilbert knew these paths down deep in his bones, could walk them in dreams, and had.

He walked and walked, away from the houses and farms, deeper into the woods, where Avonlea folk rarely bothered to venture. Why should they? There was nothing back here but trees and, somewhere, the remains of a once-beloved garden.

By the time Gilbert reached the ruins of Hester Gray's house of dreams, the sky had warmed from gray to misty blue. The highest branches of the encroaching beeches were touched with gold and amber, though the ground was still in shadow. A lone maple blazed out in autumnal splendor, yellow underbelly shading through peach and orange to a scarlet crown. Gilbert tried to remember whether he had ever been here as September waned. He had always thought of Hester Gray's garden as a place of narcissus and ripening cherries; perhaps he had always been busy at White Sands or away in Kingsport when it turned to shades of flame.

He sat for a moment on the moss-covered bench where Hester Gray had died. He closed his eyes and, for a little while, just breathed.

When he could trust himself to stand, he surveyed the garden. Wilder, now, then when last he had visited. The forest would reclaim its own, sooner, rather than later. But here and there among the bracken, Gilbert found the descendants of the flowers Hester had sown for the fall. No June lilies or roses now, but riotous patches of sunny black-eyed susans, and constellations of asters, and white sedum with its clusters of tiny stars. Gilbert pulled a small knife from his pocket and cut them with deft hands.

 _I mourn, and yet shall mourn, with ever-returning spring._

He had and would. But it was autumn now, and time for other verses.

 _On that last night before we went  
_ _From out the doors where I was bred,  
_ _I dream'd a vision of the dead,  
_ _Which left my after-morn content._

Even Tennyson had gotten there, somewhere beyond the hundredth canto.

When Gilbert had cut a thick bouquet, he sighed and stood. In the midst of Hester's garden, he closed his eyes and let himself remember.

Anne, laughing, with a wreath of wildflowers in her hair.

Anne, triumphant after beating him in a spelling bee.

Anne, lost in a book in the shade of their apple tree.

Anne, with tears in her eyes, the first time she had kissed him goodbye.

Gilbert remembered what Captain Jim had told him, all those years ago, about his pleasure in speaking of Lost Margaret.

 _All the pain went out of her memory years ago and jest left its blessing._

It wasn't true. Not fully, or maybe just not yet. But for the first time, Gilbert believed it might actually be possible.

* * *

The sun was well up by the time Gilbert reached the little Avonlea graveyard. He spared not a thought for the names he passed, the Sloanes and Gillises and generations of Pyes, lying neatly and silently beneath their terse epitaphs. He had eyes only for the white marble headstone with its garland of posies.

When he reached it, Gilbert was surprised to find a fresh bouquet of purple Michaelmas daisies propped against the monument. Perhaps Diana had visited? He knew she often did, and would probably feel the urgency of the day, as he did. He stooped. Puzzled, he drew a cream-colored envelope from beneath the flowers. It bore only one word, written in a clear and orderly hand: _Anne_.

Whatever misgivings Gilbert may have felt at desecrating a grave offering were insignificant in the face of his curiosity. Mary had been here? Had been here first?

Gilbert sat down and drew the letter from its unsealed envelope.

 _21 September 1902_

 _Dear Anne,_

 _I am sorry that I never had the chance to meet you. I can only know the reflection of you that lives on in those who love you. There are so many who do. I have been in Avonlea for three days and have already met half a dozen small Annes, including Small Anne Cordelia Wright and Dora Andrews' little Nan. You are loved, Anne, and remembered._

 _I am writing because I feel the need to reassure you, somehow. Anne, Gilbert is still yours, and always will be. I may borrow him for a while, but you belong to one another. I have known the wholeness of that love in my own life and do not think that it can be remade as it was born._

 _Once, I thought of love as an apple: sweet, whole, and sound. Now, I think it is a pomegranate: a husk over a hundred hidden barriers, and every wine-dark, bursting aril with a seed at its core. I never expected to find this second sweetness, but I have, and it is astonishing._

 _I am writing to assure you that I love Gilbert. I love him for his kindness, for his determination, and for his constancy. It may seem strange to say, but I love him for loving you still. If you can forgive me, I will strive to love him and cherish him, from this day until the day he is laid to rest here beside you._

 _I would also ask a favor of you. I was raised to believe in a Heaven, and if I have had my doubts about its existence, I have also had startling moments of assurance. I have seen my babies grow and change, following each little step of their development, until I feel sure that I will know them when we meet again. And in my darkest hours, I have known with an irrational certainty that my incalculably precious Henry exists somewhere just beyond my reach. If they are there with you, wherever you are, I would ask you to watch over them, only for a little while, until I have them in my keeping again._

 _Thank you, Anne, for having existed. Thank you for Gilbert._

 _With all my love,_

 _Mary_


	66. Chapter 33: In Each Other's Keeping

Chapter 33: In Each Other's Keeping

* * *

"Are you ready?" Fred asked, straightening his own tie before the looking glass in Gilbert's bedroom.

"Were you?" Gilbert adjusted his cuffs for the third time, unable to settle.

Fred grinned. "I thought I was. But that was only because I was young and stupid."

"I didn't think I would be this nervous," Gilbert admitted.

"Well, if you get cold feet, I'll drag you downstairs," Fred replied comfortably.

Gilbert swung to cuff him on the back of the head, but Fred dodged, laughing.

"Wait, I just remembered," Fred said, still chuckling. "Diana made this for you."

Fred reached for his jacket, thrown carelessly across the bed. Digging in a pocket, he emerged with a small cardboard box. Ever so gently, he withdrew a delicate boutonniere of rosemary around a single purple aster. Gilbert's breath caught at sight of it.

 _There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.*_

Diana couldn't have known what it meant to him. But she had arrived at the essential point on her own.

Fred pinned the flower to Gilbert's lapel and stepped back to admire the effect.

With difficulty, Gilbert whispered, "Is Diana angry with me, Fred?"

Fred's face softened. "Of course not."

"Not at all?"

"Not at all."

Gilbert pressed his lips in skepticism, making Fred throw up his hands.

"I don't know what I can say to convince you," said Fred. "You're my oldest friend, so I'll tell you the truth. Di and I have been having the exact same conversation about you for fifteen years and, as much as I care about you, Gil, I can't say that I'm going to miss it."

Gilbert was solemn. "I wouldn't be here without you, Fred. Both of you. All of you."

"I know," Fred replied before breaking into a grin. "But you're Mary's problem now. Think she's up to the challenge?"

"Definitely," Gilbert replied, smiling himself. "I'm not quite sure I am, though."

Fred laughed and clapped him on the back with a broad, calloused hand. "My friend, you have no idea."

* * *

They gathered in the apple orchard behind the Blythe homestead: Wrights and Blakes, Keiths and Andrewses, Barrys, Harrisons, Fletchers, and Bells.

John Blythe sat in an armchair that had been carried out for him, an afghan over his lap. Cora stood with her hands on his shoulders, caressing gently as she chatted with Francis and Rose O'Connor.

The Rev. Jo, in his very best suit, thumbed his pocket testament, letting it fall open where it would. He smiled on Romans 12:15: _Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep_. Perhaps the binding was only used to being open there.

Phil and Diana giggled deliriously over anything and everything. At the moment, the object of their hilarity was a flustered Davy, attempting to corral his nephews as they disappeared up apple trees and mussed their shirtfronts.

Above them, the trees hung heavy with fruit, nearly ready for harvest. Another week, perhaps, or maybe only a few days, and they would gather again to reap the fulfillment of another year's promises.

* * *

Inside, Gilbert waited alone at the bottom of the stairs. He had expected that Mr. O'Connor would want to give his daughter away, but that mirthful gentleman had objected that he had done so long ago, and Mary was her own woman now.

"Will you walk alone, then, Mary?" Gilbert had asked her.

She had met his eye with that spark of challenge he had come to know so well. "Walk with me."

He might have objected that it just wasn't done, or that he would feel a fool to come to his own wedding as a bride rather than a bridegroom. He might have agreed only to spare himself a lecture on the many failings of Dr. Almroth E. Wright, M.D., F.R.S. Instead, Gilbert took Mary's hand and kissed it and told her he would be proud to walk beside her.

Now he waited.

Mrs. O'Connor had helped Mary dress, but the bride had requested a few minutes to herself before the ceremony. It was just as well. Gilbert was thankful to have his own moment alone.

With gentle fingers, he reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out the green-embroidered handkerchief that lived there always. It was not a secret. He had shown it to Mary and asked — rather faintly — if she minded that he carried it. She had taken the scrap of linen from his hand, pressed it to her own lips, and placed it back in his pocket, where it belonged.

Gilbert had expected the handkerchief to summon some sort of farewell to his mind. But, holding it, running his thumb along the stitches that Anne had placed there with her own fingers, he knew that there was no need to say a final goodbye. This wasn't a matter of choosing, or of replacing. The handkerchief went back into the place it would always have, near his heart.

Gilbert caught a hint of movement in the corner of his eye and looked up.

Mary had not wanted a white dress. Instead, she wore pink silk as soft and delicate as the flesh of the strawberry apples ripening in the orchard. Cap sleeves of gold lace in layered fronds covered her shoulders, while a sash of the same intricate material cut across her breast at a diagonal, revealing a puff of white chiffon where the rest of the bodice should have been. A bounty of leaves and vines embroidered in harvest gold wreathed the curve of waist and hips. She wore no jewelry, save a diadem of bronze foliage nestled amid the waves of dark hair she wore loosely gathered at the nape of her neck. She carried no proper flowers, only a spray of golden wheat and autumn herbs arranged around a single pomegranate.**

Gilbert gaped. He found Mary beautiful in all her incarnations: in the impenetrable armor she donned at the lab; in the relaxed cornflower dress she wore to care for her patients at St. James; in languid dishabille on his sitting-room sofa. But he had never before seen her arrayed as the goddess of fruition. For a moment, there was nothing and no one else in the world.

Mary took one tentative step down the stairs. Gilbert met her eye, holding her gaze with his own. Brown and hazel, cautious and brimming, on the brink of something wonderful.

He held his hand out to her. She took it, a triumphant smile unfurling across her face like a banner of victory. He took her smile and gave it back in dazzling profusion. _Their happiness was in each other's keeping and both were unafraid.***_

* * *

* _Hamlet_ , act 4, scene 5

**If you're interested in seeing the inspiration for Mary's dress, google _Metropolitan Worth wheat dress_ — that should get you a dress by House of Worth, c.1900, in the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

*** _Anne's House of Dreams_ , chapter 4


	67. Epilogue

Epilogue

* * *

They lay on the bed in a pool of summer sunlight, foreheads touching. Between them, nestled amid soft, white blankets, their newborn daughter sighed in her sleep. Neither Gilbert nor Mary wished to wake her, but it was difficult to stop touching her: stroking an impossibly soft cheek, kissing a pudgy foot, marveling that such a tiny hand could grip with such tenacity.

Mary tore her gaze away at last. She looked up at Gilbert, her dark eyes serious.

"Gil? Do you want to name her Anne?"

The directness of the question startled him, though he should have been used to it by now. His throat constricted and he struggled valiantly to swallow, but he could not hide the tears that welled in his eyes. He attempted to meet Mary's unfaltering gaze.

 _She is so brave._

Gilbert had known that about Mary for a long while. She had proved it many times, but never more than in these past few months, carrying their child. He knew she would need his strength in the days and years to come, as they watched their daughter grow and learned to love her for her own precious, irreplaceable self. That Mary should think of him and his grief, in this moment that she had both longed for and dreaded, was mercy beyond justice or understanding.

"I . . . I'll admit that I considered it."

"It's alright, Gil," she said, smiling. "Anne is a beautiful name, and I'd be proud to have her carry it."

"Mary . . ."

He had meant to say more, but found that he could not. The words were in his throat, but so were the sobs, so hopelessly mingled that he wasn't sure what would come out if he gave them license to escape.

He coughed, rallied.

"Mary, I've actually thought about names quite a lot. I know how much they matter. So many of our old friends have their own little Annes, and I can't tell you what a comfort it is to know that she is not forgotten. But . . ."

Gilbert paused, running long, brown fingers through the silver streak at his temple. He blew out a breath and turned his eyes to the fat, pink baby dozing between them. Long, black lashes fanned a plump cheek, fluttering slightly as she flexed her rosebud lips. He reached out to touch the velvet fuzz of her dark hair and smiled a little half-smile.

"There was something Anne used to say, when she was a girl. She was always getting into trouble, and she would tell Diana, _Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet_. Even at Redmond, once in a while, when some scheme had gone awry, she would clasp her hands and say just that."

Gilbert looked back at Mary then. He searched her soft, brown eyes for jealousy or regret, but found only sympathy. With exquisite affection, he lifted a hand to caress her cheek.

"The past is never far for us. And as much as it hurts, we wouldn't want to forget, even if we could."

Mary's eyes were shining now. She nodded.

"And I know," Gilbert continued, a bit tremulously, "that it helps to share the burden. So much, Mary. But not with a child. She'll know our stories. All of them. But I think . . . I think I'd rather give her a name of her own. A fresh start."

Mary turned her face into his palm and kissed it. Gilbert leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her cheek.

"But thank you for asking," he whispered.

Mary seized a corner of the baby's blanket and dabbed at streaming eyes, first hers, then Gilbert's. He laughed and reached for a handkerchief on the bedside table. "Blow," he instructed, holding it to her nose.

She complied, smiling through her tears. "You're right."

"I usually am."

Mary began to laugh, but pressed her hand to her belly to dampen the movement. Instead, she infused her breathing with an accent of amusement.

"Indeed, Dr. Blythe. Perhaps you will apply your vast wisdom to the matter at hand. What shall we name this child?"

Gilbert smiled then, a smile that Mary had never seen before. In truth, it was a grin, reaching all the way into the depths of his hazel eyes until they seemed to twinkle.

"Well, Dr. Blythe," he said, "I was thinking that perhaps we could call her Joy."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Dante's Divine Comedy is divided into three parts — _Inferno, Purgatorio,_ and _Paradiso_ — each of which comprises 33 cantos. I originally planned to write 33 chapters of Purgatory during the years when Gilbert is teaching at Redmond and working in England. However, one of the things I learned while writing this story is that my capacity for self-torment is finite (shocking, I know). Spoiler: Purgatory is sad and boring. It already took 130,000+ words for Gilbert to grin just one time; I couldn't bear to drag out the suffering any longer than that. As far as final takeaway messages go, I think "Skip the Purgatory" is fitting.**

 **It's no secret that I love Longfellow — the poet as well as his poems. If you want to cry just a little more, you can read "The Cross of Snow," the sonnet he wrote for Fanny on the day he had mourned her as long as they had been married (18 years). But if you want to keep things a bit lighter,** **try Matthew Pearl's novel, _The Dante Club_ , which is basically fanfic about Longfellow and his literary pals getting together to critique his translation of _Inferno_ and also solve gruesome murders.**

 **To everyone who has read and reviewed this story: Thank you. Writing it has been important to me in a way I never could have anticipated. Thank you for your comments, your concern, and your encouragement. To all of you who have left multiple comments along the way — Meadowlarkflyaway, Excel Aunt, MrsVonTrapp, AnneNGil, Kim Blythe, LizzyEastwood, VickyP16, True Author, oz diva, Beau2809, TLWtlw, and many Guests — thank you for making this the most fun I have had in a very long time. A special thank you to Catiegirl, who has been unfailingly generous ever since my first over-eager fangirl PM. Please consider this a 130,000-word review of WTC chapter 34. It meant a lot to me. And thanks to everyone who writes beautiful "apple love" stories on this site — I love to read them.**

 **As far as a sequel goes, I can't promise a full-length Part III (though fulfilling that Dante structure does appeal to the part of me that is chafing at the asymmetry . . .). But I do have some ideas for updates. Right now, I am writing the Blythe kids as teenagers (which is sooooo much fun — give me a quick breather and then we can jump into that). But I keep finding myself wondering . . . what's Mary up to these days?**

 **For right now, I have two deleted scenes that I'll post this weekend:**

 **1\. Dora's Wedding (the only part of _Purgatory_ I was sad to lose)**

 **2\. . . . the second half of "Slaying Dragons" . . .**


	68. Deleted Scene: Dora's Wedding

**Author's Note:**

 **Thank you all for your lovely reviews. I am a half-giggly, half-weepy mess hearing that this story meant something to you. I especially enjoyed hearing about your experiences of reading — which parts made you cry or laugh or not want to read anymore. I'm glad to be able to imagine you as you read. Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to leave a comment.**

 **I wrote some pieces of Purgatory before I scrapped it. I managed to repurpose some of the content of this scene in Dora's letter and "An Avonlea Family Christmas," but not all of it. Dora's wedding takes place in 1893, while Gilbert is a professor at Redmond.**

* * *

Deleted Scene: Dora's Wedding

* * *

June, 1893

* * *

Gilbert and Diana stood on the lawn at Orchard Slope, sipping lemonade as Dora and Ralph Andrews mingled with their wedding guests.

"Has it really been seven years since Fred and I were married?" Diana mused, watching Prissy Phillips embrace the newlyweds.

"Are you sure it isn't seventy?" Gilbert replied in a tone that made Diana realize that she had forgotten to adjust her conversation to her audience.

"Sorry, Gil. I didn't think before I said that."

He gave her an apologetic smile. "Don't mind me, Di. It's been a long day."

Diana took a sip from her glass. The sun was nearing the tops of the spruces in the Haunted Wood, but the lawn was still bathed in the clear light of early summer, just as it had been on her own wedding day. She did not doubt that Gilbert was as finely attuned to the resemblance as she.

"Minnie May was so thrilled to be Dora's bridesmaid," Diana said, thinking that this was a safer topic and kicking herself when she realized it was not.

Gilbert merely raised his eyebrows. "Really? Weren't you worried that she would be upset because Dora stole a march on her?"

"I was," Diana replied, relieved. "Though I certainly wouldn't have wanted her to settle the question of Frank Bell vs. Ned Clay just to race Dora to the altar. But Minnie May rose to the occasion. I do believe that girl is growing up."

"They all are," Gilbert murmured, glancing toward the orchard, where young Fred was crowing from the top of a cherry tree.

"Is it wise, do you think, Gil?" Diana asked, "Letting Dora marry when she's just barely 18?"

"I don't see how I could have advised her to wait," Gilbert replied, somewhat tersely.

Diana flicked a glance in his direction, but he did not seem overly agitated.

"I don't really know Ralph Andrews," Gilbert continued. "I just remember him as a fat little blonde baby, always wanting to be included."

"He's a good, steady man," Diana said. "He doesn't look much like Jane, but he takes after her. There's not much excitement to him, but he's a good farmer and he'll make Dora a reliable husband. I was just worrying, wondering whether she only accepted him because he's the first man who asked her."

"It sounds like they're well suited to one another," Gilbert opined. "You may be right about her jumping at the chance to get married. But I've gotten to know Dora a bit through her letters these past five years. I think it's important to her to have a family. A home. Somewhere that feels safe and permanent. And I don't begrudge her that."

Diana did more than glance then, searching Gilbert's face as best she could without meeting his gaze head-on. After a minute's silence, she smirked. "I wouldn't have thought it would be possible to get acquainted with Dora through a letter."

Gilbert chuckled. "That girl is maddeningly reticent. I swear I never knew what to say to her. I wrote her the shortest, most awkward letters you can imagine until I hit on the idea of sending her recipes. I could always find some instructions for mixing up a tonic or a balm. She seemed to like that, so we mostly talked about herbal medicine. You know how she loves that aloe plant."

"Is that why you brought her all those seedlings as a wedding gift?"

"Yes, for her garden. They're mostly herbs. I had the staff at the Redmond greenhouses put together some medicinal plants that would grow here, and a few that will only thrive under the hothouse bells."

"They're beautiful, those bells," Diana declared, thinking of the three heavy glass domes Gilbert had brought from Kingsport. Tropical plants that could never grow in the brisk, sandy environment of Prince Edward Island would thrive in the sunshine on the deep window bench in Dora Andrews's kitchen.

"I'm finding it somewhat difficult to imagine Dora at the old Lynde place," Gilbert said. "I remember cutting across fields as a boy to avoid Mrs. Lynde and her tongue, but I suppose the Avonlea small fry will be pretty safe going by the road with Dora there instead. How did Ralph end up getting the farm anyway? I thought Mr. Coates didn't want to sell."

Diana smiled mischievously into her lemonade.

"Diana Wright, what did you do?" Gilbert asked in tones of mock rebuke.

"Well I didn't run him out of town, if that's what you're thinking . . ."

"Diana . . ."

She shrugged, her cheeks wickedly dimpled. "I merely made a very subtle suggestion in one of my letters to Mrs. Harry Inglis regarding the financing of such a purchase."

"Subtle my foot," Gilbert chuckled. "So Jane helped Ralph make an offer Mr. Coates couldn't refuse?"

"Oh, he could have refused. _Then_ I would have had to run him out of town."

They laughed together, both of them feeling for a moment the old camaraderie of the AVIS days.

"It's good to see Jane again," Gilbert said. "She seems happy with Mr. Inglis. I'll have to go thank her — subtly — for helping. I know it means a lot to Dora, staying close to Davy."

Diana nodded. "My parents are glad to have her nearby as well. You know they love her just as they love Minnie May. Better, sometimes, I suspect."

"Well, I doubt Dora's given them quite as many gray hairs."

"Some of those were their own fault," Diana said, pursing her lips. "And maybe yours as well."

"Mine?" Gilbert asked, surprised.

"One of the biggest fights they ever had was over Minnie May going to Queen's. She wanted to go, but they weren't going to send her until _you_ encouraged Dora to join the Queen's class. They certainly weren't going to prevent Dora if you said it was alright for her to go, and that rather kicked their legs out from under them when it came to Minnie May."

Gilbert grimaced. "I didn't mean to undermine them, especially after all they've done. I was only thinking of what was best for Dora."

"And quite right, too," Diana sniffed. "I was terribly disappointed when . . . when you all went away to Queen's without me. I forgave my parents long ago, but I can still feel angry about it if I let myself."

Diana looked up the lawn to the veranda of Orchard Slope, where a knot of older guests gossiped over tea and cake. Mrs. Harmon Andrews was in her glory at the center of the conclave, celebrating the flight of her youngest nestling by rehashing every stale unpleasantness she could call to mind. There was one wizened face there that had not been seen in Avonlea for many a year, and it drew Diana's eye irresistibly.

"Gil? Aren't you going to talk to her?"

"Who?"

"Mrs. Lynde."

Gilbert's nostrils flared. "Don't, Diana. Please."

Diana swallowed, but she meant to say what must be said. "You may never see her again. Can't you forgive her? For your own sake, if not for hers."

Gilbert tossed the remainder of his lemonade into a rosebush. His jaw was set, his hazel eyes dangerous. "No."

"It can help, Gil. Letting go of some of that . . ."

He cut her off. "Stop. I'm not going to fight with you about this. It's just not going to happen."

Diana pressed her lips together. "I'm sorry."

"Forget it."

"No. I'm sorry for your sake," Diana said sadly. "It's a terrible thing to carry that kind of anger around."

Gilbert could have shouted at her. Who did she think she was to scold him? Especially today, when she knew he was just trying to get through the wedding as best he could.

But, at the same time, he knew Diana was right. For the past six years, he had focused his rage over what had happened in those last few weeks at Green Gables on Mrs. Lynde. He was well practiced in the art of muzzling his fury, but it was always there, always distressingly easy to unleash. He could never, _never_ forgive Rachel Lynde for keeping him from the little east gable room, just when he had most needed to be there.

"I don't need your pity, Diana," he said instead.

"I'm not pitying you, Gil," she replied. "I'm praying for you."


	69. Deleted Scene: Slaying Dragons II

**Author's note:**

 **I deleted this scene for a couple of reasons:**

 **1) It was not really the tone I was going for as a lead-in to those last couple of chapters.**

 **2) I can't convince myself 100% that it happened. Maybe 80%. Let me know whether you think this is out of character.**

 **3) I have no idea what "T-rated" means. (Any guidance there? Your answer will determine just how much of certain young, exuberant couples you get to see next go-round. . .)**

* * *

Deleted Scene: Slaying Dragons

immediately following dinner at the Omni Parker House

* * *

The horse-drawn cab swayed and jolted over the cobblestone streets of Boston, curtains drawn tight over the windows.

Inside, Mary disentangled herself enough to look Gilbert full in the face. Somewhat breathlessly, she whispered, "Gil? Take me home."

"I am taking you home," he said, sitting up.

"No. Home to Marlborough Street."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Mary. You can't wait a week?"

There was an unmistakeable flash of defiance in her dark eye. "No."

"You'll just have to exercise some restraint," he teased, leaning over to kiss her under the ear in a most provoking manner.

Mary was not distracted. "Gilbert, have you ever been to a wedding?"

"Of course," came the muffled reply.

"Then you know that they are exhausting. You don't sleep well the night before. You spend all day on your feet, talking, dancing, entertaining relatives. Most people don't want to do anything on their wedding nights except sleep."

"Oh, I think I'd muster the energy somehow."

She giggled, pushing him away. "Maybe. But with my luck the ferry will sink on the way to Kingsport and your last thought before we drown will be, _I should have taken Mary home with me_."

Gilbert snorted. "Very cheerful, Dr. Parkman."

" _Carpe Diem_ , Dr. Blythe."

"We can't."

"Why not?"

"Because . . ." Gilbert rubbed the back of his neck ". . . because . . . er . . ."

"Exactly," Mary said emphatically.

"No, Mary. It wouldn't be . . . respectable."

"Are you so sensitive to public opinion?"

"What if . . . what if you got pregnant?" Even as he said it, Gilbert realized what a feeble objection it was, a week before the wedding. "We just can't, Mary. What if someone saw us? What if Mrs. Milligan turns up? What if Michael is waiting outside my house right now?"

"I'm not asking you whether it's a good idea . . ." Mary said with a wicked smirk.

Gilbert took a deep breath. "That isn't the issue, and you know it. It just . . . wouldn't be honorable."

"Oh, well I suppose that's the very last word, isn't it," Mary said. "Certainly nothing I can say would persuade you if you've convinced yourself it isn't _honorable_. So I won't try to talk you into it."

Instead, Mary spent the next minute or two in non-verbal persuasion, sitting back only when she had made her point exceptionally clear.

"You're serious," Gilbert gasped, all teasing gone from his voice.

"Very serious."

Gilbert ran his tongue over his tender lower lip. He couldn't. It just wouldn't be right. He glanced over at Mary, her dark eyes huge, her hair beginning to fall down in soft waves to her black lace shoulders. He looked away quickly. _That_ was certainly not going to help.

There were rules. Rules that were meant to protect women. Make sure that they didn't get hurt. Gilbert would not, could not break the most iron-clad rule of his lifelong training as a gentleman.

 _Not that those rules didn't sometimes do more harm than good . . ._

"I . . . don't want to take advantage of you, Mary," Gilbert said.

Mary met this earnest pronouncement with a look of such elaborate skepticism that Gilbert felt a wild urge to laugh. More than an urge. Mary compressed her lips against her own amusement; Gilbert began to shake. Quietly at first, then unguardedly as she joined in. He slumped against the seat; she collapsed next to him, holding her sides as she convulsed with hilarity.

"Do you mean to tell me . . ." he said, attempting to catch his breath, ". . . that after all this time, and with one week to go, that I'm _not_ going to make it to my wedding night?"

Mary giggled and kissed him on the forehead. "No. Sorry."

"Providence has a very odd sense of humor," he grumbled.

Pulling back the curtains, Gilbert leaned his head out of the cab window and shouted up to the driver, informing him of the change in their destination. He settled back into his seat, returning Mary's exultant smile.

"Just tell me one thing, Mary," he said. "Why? Really?"

"Why?" Mary bent forward and kissed him on the cheek, far back, where she could whisper in his ear. "Because I love you." _Kiss._ "Because you look irresistibly handsome tonight." _Kiss._ "Because you said you wanted a story." _Kiss_.

"I don't think I'll be telling this one . . ."

"A story just for us, then."

Gilbert wrapped a strong arm about her waist and pulled her into his lap. "I love you, too, Mary."

He kissed her deeply, running one hand up the back of her neck and into her loosening hair, the other holding her firmly to him.

Several breathless moments later, Mary smiled against his lips.

"Gil? I know I said I couldn't wait, but I can *probably* wait until we reach the house."

It was not far.

When they arrived, Gilbert tipped the cab driver extravagantly, tripped on the step, fumbled for his key. Mary followed, not trying very hard to suppress her giggles.

The door had barely shut behind them before they were in one another's arms. Mary pushed his jacket off his shoulders; Gilbert pulled the pins from her hair. Mary decided she didn't care if she _did_ rip her dress; Gilbert cursed the wretch who had invented buttons.

Some of the preliminaries accomplished, Mary broke away and took several steps up the stairs. Abruptly, she turned back and sat down, her petticoat hiked up around her knees. Gilbert could not divine her intentions until she raised a black-shod foot toward his chest.

"Help," was all she said.

How many buttons were there in the world, anyway?

Mary's shoes went over the banister, one after the other. Stockings next.

She stood and Gilbert climbed the steps until the were eye-to-eye. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

"I don't even know where the bedroom is," Mary laughed.

Gilbert swept her into his arms. "Allow me to escort you."

Laughing, he carried her up the stairs. It was difficult to navigate without being able to see, but he managed. He needed no sense but touch to kick the door closed behind them. It latched with a satisfying click.


	70. 68 Marlborough Street

68 Marlborough Street

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

* * *

15 September 1916

* * *

Dr. Mary Blythe slipped a letter opener under the flap of a heavy, cream-colored envelope. After slicing the paper in a single, even stroke, she set her blade down next to her egg cup and pulled the embossed invitation from its sheath. Her eyes slid over the elaborate calligraphy and she let out a groan.

Gilbert looked over the top of his newspaper, his eyebrows raised in inquiry. It was his third newspaper of the morning; ever since the beginning of the war, he had arranged for daily deliveries of the _Washington Post_ and the _Toronto Star_ in addition to his usual _Boston Herald_. Bundles of week-old editions of the _Times_ arrived from London on Saturdays. For the past three months, all their headlines had blared of the Somme offensive on the Western Front.

"It's a dinner invitation," Mary grimaced. "From Dr. and Mrs. Thomas Cabot."

"Really?" Gilbert asked, surprised.

"Who's Dr. Cabot, Mother?" Joy asked, nibbling at her toast.

"He's someone we knew at Harvard," Mary replied, frowning at the invitation.

"Is he the one who . . ." Cora began, but stopped herself when she remembered that both of her grandchildren were listening attentively.

Gilbert cleared his throat. "He's the one who was injured in the explosion in the lab, Mother."

"Oh, yes, that's what I was wondering," Cora nodded, grateful for the rescue. "I take it he recovered fully?"

"Yes," Mary said. "And now we are invited to . . . _Elmhurst_ . . . for dinner on Thursday, the 21st of September."

"What's Elmhurst, Mama?" asked John.

"An ordeal, I'm sure," she muttered.

"Now, now, Mary," Gilbert chided. "I never heard that you had any quarrel with Dr. Cabot. Elmhurst is Dr. Cabot's house, John. I'm sure it's . . . very impressive."

"The house has a name?" John asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Sure, like The Excelsior, dummy," said Joy, naming a boarding house in Copley Square.

"Not quite like The Excelsior . . ." Gilbert corrected, but Joy wasn't listening.

"Is it a _fancy_ dinner party, Mother?"

At twelve, Joy had recently become enamored of all things "grown up" and longed with all her heart to wear dainty evening dresses and go to parties. No one but Cora knew that she dreamed of someday having beaux — in the plural at that! — though anyone might have guessed it if they thought of her as anything other than a little girl.

"Will there be dancing?" Joy asked, enchanted at the idea. "Oh, Mother, what will you wear?"

"Nothing," Mary answered, stuffing the invitation back into its envelope.

"My, won't you make a splash!" Gilbert smirked.

Mary hid a smile behind a scowl. "I will not be wearing anything to Elmhurst because I will not be going to Elmhurst."

"No?" Gilbert asked. "Why not?"

"I could live several lifetimes without attending another Harvard event, or any event that is likely to be made up of similar company." She fixed Gilbert with a pointed look. "I have no interest in being forced to make pleasant chit-chat with Dr. Lowell."

"Who's Dr. Lowell?" Joy asked.

"Never mind," said Gilbert, Mary, and Cora as one.

"What does Cabot want with us, anyway?" Mary asked. "We haven't heard from him in, what? Fourteen years?"

"That isn't true," Gilbert replied, shifting uneasily in his seat. "You see him at vaccine conferences every now and again. And I saw him when I presented that paper on public clinics to the Board of Health. He's always been friendly enough."

"Nodding across a lecture hall is one thing," Mary huffed. "Going to _Elmhurst_ , however . . ."

"Who's going where?" asked Mrs. Milligan, entering the dining room with a tray of pastries.

"Mother and Dad are going to a dinner party. A fancy one!" Joy burbled.

"Are they now?" Mrs. Milligan said, not much impressed. "Would you care for a danish, Dr. Blythe?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Milligan," said Mary, taking a warm pastry from the platter.

"Me too!" John piped up. He reached for two frosted buns, but caught Cora's disapproving glance and took only one.

"What's that it says, there?" Mrs. Milligan asked, leaning over Gilbert's shoulder to read the latest from the Somme. "A new offensive?"

"It seems there's been another burst of fighting this week," Gilbert replied gravely, indicating the map on the front page of the _Star_. "The Canadian Corps has been very heavily engaged here and here — near Flers and Courcelette."

As Mrs. Milligan studied the map, Mary caught Gilbert's eye and held it. It had been two years since anyone had truly slept well, but these past few weeks had left heavy shadows under Gilbert's eyes. Mary knew it would be too soon to have heard any news of the boys they loved — of Gordon and Olly Blake, of Fred and Jack Wright, of George and Harmon Andrews and a dozen other boys from Avonlea, and Edgar Wilson, Jr. from Montreal. All were "somewhere in France," all in harm's way.

"The Canadian boys will punch through, Dad," said John with considerable enthusiasm. "They'll break the Hun line for sure!"

Gilbert reached over and ruffled the boy's brown curls, devoutly thankful that he was nowhere near old enough to go, even if Woodrow Wilson ever got around to doing anything other than writing notes.

It was a complex emotion — how could he admit to himself being grateful for anything connected with losing Anne? But over the past two years, he had thought often and oftener of the sons he might have had in another lifetime. Sons who would have been old enough to go off to war beside Phil's boys and Diana's and Dora's. He thought of Davy, whose letters held a creeping fear that the war would last until Harry was old enough to enlist. Gilbert closed his eyes and said a brief but heartfelt prayer for all the Canadian boys he loved, and all those he didn't know, going "over the top" at Courcelette today.

"Hush, John," said Mary, though not harshly.

"It's high time you two were off to school," said Cora, rising from the table. "Joy, go find your books. And John, go with Mrs. Milligan to fetch the lunches. I will meet you in the hall in three minutes."

The children obeyed at once, eager to be off.

"And wash your hands!" Cora called after them.

Cora stepped lightly toward the hall, pausing by Gilbert's chair to lay a hand gently on his shoulder. "There's nothing we can do for them but pray, dear."

"I know," he said, attempting a smile. "Though I think I'll write a few letters this morning before I make my rounds. Let Phil and Jo and Diana and Fred know that I'm thinking of them all."

Cora planted a tender kiss on the top of his head and walked on. Grief and worry, worry and grief. There was a drop of bitterness in every cup, and lucky people had friends who knew the taste and could hold their hands when it came their turn to drink.

When Gilbert and Mary were alone at the table, she stretched out her hand and took his.

"I'm sorry to pout over a dinner party," she said, genuinely contrite. "I'll go if you want to."

Gilbert set down his newspaper, ran his free hand through the streak of silver at his temple. "I suspect you'll want to avoid it even more once you know a bit more about it."

"Oh?" Mary asked, suddenly on guard.

"I heard last week, but didn't think much of it at the time. It didn't seem worth mentioning."

"Gil . . ."

"It's Dr. Cabot. I heard he has a new job." Gilbert looked up and met Mary's eye as steadily as he could. "He's got a commission from the War Department. He's a Colonel, I think. In charge of building a vaccination program for the American army."

* * *

. . .

* * *

Author's Note:

Let me tell you a ghost story.

I was working on a Marbert update even before I finished posting the final chapter of "The Sun and the Other Stars." Nothing big, just a note or a snippet of an idea here and there. For one scene, I needed to give the Marlborough Street house an actual street number for an address. So I fired up Google Street View and took a virtual walk down Marlborough Street until I found the house that matched my imagination, and said, "That's it!" It was #68 Marlborough Street, and I wrote it into my scene.

Then I started worrying. It's one thing to say the house is on Marlborough Street, but when you put an exact address on it, that's some real person's house. I started fretting — who really lived there in 1902? Whose house was I stealing for my story?

So I decided to look it up. Marlborough Street is in an historic district called the Back Bay and there is a lovely website (backbayhouses dot org) that compiles the history of each house from deeds and directories. So I went and clicked on #68 Marlborough.

And about fell out of my chair.

In 1902, #68 Marlborough Street was owned by Dr. Grace Wolcott.

As you may have gathered, there were not so very many female doctors in Boston in 1902. But several of them lived at #68 Marlborough. Dr. Wolcott bought the house in 1886. She lived there with Dr. Lena Ingraham. Together, Dr. Wolcott and Dr. Ingraham staffed a clinic called Trinity Dispensary that specialized in the care of working women, staying open late so that women could visit without losing wages. In 1891, Dr. Wolcott and Dr. Ingraham founded a hospital called Vincent Memorial that was staffed entirely by female physicians. One of the staff doctors, Dr. Ella Dexter, even moved in with them at #68.

Vincent Memorial grew and grew, and eventually merged with Massachusetts General Hospital — today it is one of the premiere women's health centers in the United States.

I looked up Dr. Grace Wolcott's obituary in the _New England Journal of Medicine_ — here is the final paragraph:

" _She was pre-eminently a physician alike of bodies and souls. Radiantly alive herself, she rejoiced in all forms of life; and her keenest pleasure lay in spending herself that she might give fostering care to all living things from the blade of grass through all nature up to humanity. Strength mated with tenderness, faith and joy, boundless courage, unstinting devotion, marked her glowing personality, filling her with the life abundant, and so making her communicative of it to all who came under her care and influence. She had not been well for some time and had decided to spend the winter at Heath. There her earthly life came to an end; and with a swiftness and directness characteristic of all she did, she passed into eternal rest_."

At this point, I was weeping at my desk and questioning my commitment to atheism.

When I had gathered myself together a bit, I began to wonder who lived next door to #68. So I clicked on #66 Marlborough Street.

Guess who lived there?

#66 Marlborough Street was the home of Dr. Israel Tisdale Talbot and Emily Fairbanks Talbot. You may remember them as the founders of the New England Female Medical College (later Boston University School of Medicine) and the Boston Girls' Latin Academy, Mary's alma maters (as discussed in "Playing Cards for Money"). The Talbots were so important to Mary that I had already named Gilbert and Mary's son John Talbot Blythe. They lived next door to Dr. Wolcott.

I know this sounds fake, or like maybe I read it somewhere and knew it subconsciously or something. But I didn't. I picked Marlborough Street way back in the summer, just because it was close to Harvard Medical School, but not too ritzy — "doctor fancy," not "shipping magnate fancy." I picked #68 just because it looked like the house I had imagined. I had never heard of Dr. Grace Wolcott. And as much research as I did, I never thought of looking up the Talbot's home address. (Also, one of the servants listed in the 1920 census record for #66 Marlborough was named Mary O'Connor because of course she was. I chose the name in part because it was common, but still.)

Long story short: I thought I was writing fanfic, but now I am entertaining the possibility that I am being haunted.

As for the family that lived on the other side (#70 Marlborough) in real life . . . well, someday you'll get a chance to know them, too. I certainly have — they won't leave me alone either.

This chapter is just a tease. Dispatches will continue on its regular schedule as news spreads and characters react to Walter's death. Meanwhile, I'm going to take my time writing more Marbert. I have lots of bits and pieces, but I want to get it right, rather than rushing it. There's still a lot more war over in Dispatches, and NaNoWriMo Carl and Shirley ("The Happiness We Must Win"), and maybe something for Young Dad Gilbert, and whatever prompts you decide to throw at me . . .


End file.
